


Wildflowers

by axona, OneKerfuffle



Series: Amaranthine [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Break Up, Denial of Feelings, Getting Together, Long-Distance Friendship, M/M, Moving In Together, Mutual Pining, Panic Attacks, Personal Growth, Protective Yuri Plisetsky, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love, friendship is important
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-14 11:03:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 73,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9178732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/axona/pseuds/axona, https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneKerfuffle/pseuds/OneKerfuffle
Summary: These won’t be the last tears he sheds over Victor Nikiforov, but he has hit a point where they stop and leave him numb and dazed.“He...that was my first kiss,” Yuuri whispers, staring down at his open palms on his lap helplessly.Yurio makes a noise like he’s just been punched in the gut, and he growls something in Russian that Yuuri doesn’t bother translating. He only looks up when Yurio squats in front of him, firmly and unapologetically taking hold of Yuuri’s empty hands with his own, intense blue-green eyes staring at him.“You deserve better than him.”





	1. Heather Lavender -- Protection, Solitude, Admiration

**Author's Note:**

> So I love Yuri/Yuri and I am so tired of seeing works with only smut, or Yuri never growing out of his tsundere/grumpy teenage phase, or showing that Yuri has so much more depth and emotion to him than how a lot of writers portray him. This is my brainchild and my hope to rectify this! This pairing is more than just smut or using Victor as a middle man and it deserves better. Victor and Yuuri are never really together so this is a slight AU. 
> 
> This will be a long, slow burn, multi-chapter fic! I really hope my fellow Yu2 fans enjoy! Beta'd and helped along by the lovely LuluBean!
> 
> PLEASE NOTE. The main part of this story takes place one year after episode 12. I've adjusted ages a little - Yurio is a year up from canon age, 17 almost 18 as a year has passed in this story. Yuuri and Victor have both been taken down 3 years, so Yuuri just turned 22 and Victor will be turning 25. There is a 5 year age gap between the two Yuris.

Everyone had anticipated the time when Yurio grew into himself, when puberty took hold of his androgynous, willowy form and breathed adulthood into his bones. Yuuri admitted to being curious himself, after his arrival in St. Petersburg on the high of an engagement and a silver medal. What kind of man would Yurio be? Stocky like his grandfather? Lean and tall? Petite? Yuuri recalled his own disappointment with himself as he had grown out of his teen years, vying for height that never came. Muscle that never defined his figure. Surrounded by dazzling Russian skaters with beauty and athleticism on their sides, Yuuri could confess to being worried for the younger gold medalist. 

 

Seeing Yurio every day is a novelty. The move itself was originally daunting; Yuuri only knew basic functional Russian, unlike his fluency in English when he’d gone to Detroit to train. It was a whole new world, one that was not as quiet and patiently welcoming as Hasetsu’s sleepy atmosphere. Yuuri had never been one to go out and adventure or party, but it felt as if he was in a bubble where the rest of the world passed by and he was left wistfully staring after them. Incapable of communicating easily outside of the rink. 

 

“Вы до сих пор не говорит по-русски?” Yurio growls at him from the ice, gliding by while Yuuri fumbles pitifully through subpar Russian with one of the rink staff. It’s a simple enough sentence structure, at least. One Yuuri can recognize, even if the underlying insult is more familiar than any of the spoken words. 

 

Yuuri nervously smiles and shrugs his shoulders, not wanting to entice the fearsome youth. 

 

Victor explains that Russia doesn’t adopt the tradition of exchanging gifts on Orthodox Christmas, despite the rest of the westernized world having made it a staple of the holiday. So when Yuuri manages to wrangle the entirety of the rink into exchanging a few small, simple gifts, he’s surprised to have a surprisingly well-wrapped present thrust at him. Blinking up at Yurio, Yuuri watches as a downward twist puckers the boy’s lips.

 

“Well? Open it, moron!” The vitriol doesn’t bother Yuuri in the slightest, his own eyes widening alongside his smile. Admittedly Yuuri hadn’t anticipated any gifts, especially not from Yurio. He tenderly unwraps it, ignoring Yurio’s scalding muttering as he peels the tape off gently. 

 

It’s…

 

“So you can stop sounding like an idiot,” Yurio grouses, even if the hands stuffed in his hoodie pocket and the way he rocks in his sneakers is an obvious tell of embarrassment to Yuuri. The Japanese skater stares down at the collection of audio discs and books, from beginner to advanced, all for the purpose of helping his Russian along. 

 

It means more than Yurio could know - or perhaps he does, which only makes the gesture all the more meaningful. It’s about more than knowing the right words, it’s about communication and confidence. Safety. Freedom. He and Victor only have one car, and he’s dependent on Victor to take him to places he can’t reach on foot. Areas and cities he didn’t know, with maps he couldn’t read and signs in an unfamiliar language. And as much as he loved Victor (an unfortunate, painful reality) the man was airheaded at the best of times, his exuberance and vivacity clouding his mind. Forgetting to translate things Yuuri wanted and needed explained to him in conversations, leaving the anxious skater to stand at the edge of the group, feeling desperately lost and alone. This isn’t an instantaneous fix, but it’s a start, and Yuuri is grateful beyond words for such a precious gift. 

 

Yurio makes a garbled noise when Yuuri steps close and hugs him tight, and the cooing of Mila and Victor at their embrace doesn’t escape his attention either, which only spurs Yurio’s blustering further. Yuuri smiles nonetheless, because he can feel Yurio’s arm come up around his back to awkwardly return the hug. 

 

“Спасибо, Yura,” Yuuri whispers sincerely into Yurio’s ear, where the other skaters can’t hear and tease. Yurio’s arm tightens around Yuuri, and it makes Yuuri feel so welcome that he lets the sharp barb of criticism against his pronunciation slide. 

  


\-----

 

Victor shatters Russian Nationals just as everyone had expected. Yurio is a close second, but Yuuri can tell it only strengthens his resolve for the new season. Yuuri proudly waves the Russian flag for the both of them rinkside, cheering their names and hugging them the second their blades leave the ice. Yurio is slowly growing used to these unplanned assaults, though his ears still go pink. Victor sweeps them both up in his arms, and Yuuri’s laughter punctuates Yurio’s distressed yells. 

 

He’s never been happier. 

  


\-----

 

Two silvers and one bronze later, Yuuri starts to doubt himself. Victor shows no sign of malevolence or exasperation, but the rings around their fingers don’t seem to shine with the same light. He knows the engagement joke had just been a bit of humor on Victor’s end, even if Yuuri revealed too much of himself in purchasing bands advertised as wedding jewelry. But Victor had seemed to believe him when he called them good luck charms, and Yuuri tried not to let it hurt when he’d occasionally see Victor walking around with his fingers bare. It didn’t mean the same thing to Victor as it did to Yuuri, but it didn’t lessen the hurt of the realization every time. 

 

Yuuri says nothing about the emotions in his chest, instead focusing on each new routine and destination. He and Victor are fine, he tells himself. Even on days when Victor laughs so brightly with their rinkmates, when his eyes shine as he speaks to reporters and fans alike, when he seems to forget that Yuuri even exists. That Yuuri had uprooted his life for the second time for Victor, for Russia. Even when they go to bed in separate rooms, sharing an apartment in a way Yuuri had never wanted, sometimes it feels like Victor overlooks him. So newly enchanted with his pending return to the ice. But this is still what Yuuri had wanted in the end. For Victor to competitively skate once more, because he’d never seen anything more meant to be than Victor Nikiforov and fresh ice. 

 

The months slip by. St. Petersburg is not home, it can’t be. Nowhere is really home anymore, not when pieces of his heart scatter across the globe from Hasetsu to Detroit to Moscow. It had never mattered - wherever Victor was, that was home. Or, it was  _ supposed _ to be home. But Victor is still stubbornly blind to the adoration that Yuuri mutst be veritably oozing. Yuuri tells himself that it’s enough to have Victor as one of the closest friends Yuuri’s ever had. He doesn’t want to ruin that. 

 

They see less of each other as the competitions go by; Nationals, Four Continents, European Championships, Grand Prix, Worlds, Olympics. They can’t always both qualify for the same, and there are times when Yuuri is left in their shared apartment with Makkachin warming the bed where Victor should be. Where Victor usually  _ is,  _ despite having his own room. He crawls into Yuuri’s bed (into Yuuri’s heart) more times than Yuuri cares to recall each week. Content to hold him, relishing in human contact that Yuuri can’t help but provide. Unaware, as always, that with every moment he spent with Yuuri in the fantasy hours of twilight when Yuuri let himself hope, that he was tainting pieces of Yuuri’s hear that the younger man was helpless to not leave exposed. 

 

He fooled himself continually into thinking that maybe tonight, this time, Victor would confess. Would cup his cheek in the sparse moonlight through the curtains and kiss him. It never happens. Even though it hurts Yuuri all the more to wake up to Victor’s sleep-soft face and know his love is unrequited, he knows how lonely Victor is, and can’t deny giving him the superficial comfort he needs. Yuuri would give him so much more, if only Victor would let him. He would hold him and caress his hair and whisper how beautiful and talented and  _ loved _ Victor is. He can give Victor so much more than a warm body to hold and cling to at night, but Victor never asks, so Yuuri never offers. So Yuuri’s left staring at his ring and the silent phone on his pillow. 

 

This is one of those nights, with miles between his bed and where Victor is destined to skate that next morning. Waits for a text in reply to his good luck wishes that never seems to come. Until at last the screen lights up like a beacon of hope, and Yuuri fumbles trying to reach it as quickly as he can. Nobody is here to witness his shameful loyalty. But as his eyes adjust to the light he realizes it’s not Victor. It’s...Yurio? 

 

Yuuri slides his thumb across the screen to reveal a slightly blurry selfie from Yurio. It’s of him and Victor, the older Russian speaking emphatically to a few unknown faces with a large smile. Yurio’s rolled eyes are legendary and familiar in equal parts in focus of the camera, forcing a smile on Yuuri’s lips. 

 

Another text rolls in moments later under the photo. 

 

_ Asshole is driving me crazy, wish you were here to rein him in. _

 

Yuuri smiles, one hand idly massaging through Makkachin’s fur. He catches the unsaid  _ wish you were here at all  _ that Yurio doesn’t say. With time in St. Petersburg, he’s slowly catching on to Yurio’s quirks and unspoken meanings. 

 

_ As if I could control him either!  _ Yuuri types back with one hand, amused by how quickly the little ellipses appear to signify Yurio was typing. 

 

_ At least I could have an excuse to get away from his fucking rambling. I hate you. Why didn’t you come. _

 

It isn’t a question, clearly. Especially with the noticeable lack of a question mark. Yuuri laughs softly into his pillow, fatigue pulling at his eyes. They were in different timezones, after all. 

 

_ Yura you know I can’t be your physical excuse to get away from the reporters, they make me answer questions too. _

 

This time the ellipses pop up and disappear repeatedly, and Yuuri can’t help but keep pressing his thumb to the screen when it tries to darken. It isn’t like Yurio to waver, his bluntness was one of his defining qualities. 

 

_ We could’ve just left together, idiot.  _

 

Why had he hesitated so long over something that simple? Yuuri smiles fondly. 

 

_ Next time, then! _

 

A yawn comes up on him immediately as his finger hits send, and he tucks his head into the pillow to muffle it. As if Yurio was omniscient, an angry text comes through, several emoticons littering the message. 

 

_ Why the fuck are you even still awake, katsudon? Go to bed or Yakov’s gonna kick your ass. _

 

_ It’s lonely here without you two.  _ Yuuri types without really thinking about it, exhaustion just as good as alcohol when it came to freeing up his tongue. 

 

Again the ellipses come and go, but Yuuri’s drooping eyes don’t register it. Until at last his phone buzzes, and he cracks one eye open to read it listlessly. 

 

_ We’ll be back in two days, idiot. That’s no excuse to not sleep.  _

 

Then, a few moments later:

 

_ We miss you too. _

 

Yuuri falls asleep with a smile on his face. The bed doesn’t feel so empty anymore. 

  


\-----

 

It all comes crashing down after Yuuri’s next competition and ensuing gold. Yurio’s looking secretly proud from the second podium step, his own silver still an amazing accomplishment. Yuuri admits to crying, clutching his first gold medal from the Grand Prix Final a year after Yurio had squeaked past his score. But he’s smiling so hard his cheeks ache, and as they’re skating away from the podium, he feels Yurio nudge him hard in the arm. 

 

Yurio’s scowling a little but his eyes are amused when Yuuri turns to him.

 

“Stop crying, stupid. Be happy.” 

 

He is. He’s so incredibly happy, and he goes rushing into Victor’s welcome hug at the kiss and cry. Everything feels like a dream, one he doesn’t want to wake up from. 

 

The banquet is just as exhilarating without the alcohol, this time around. He dances with everyone until his already aching feet stab painfully in his dress shoes. It doesn’t stop him. This is  _ his  _ night, after all. 

 

Victor however is the one indulging in a few extra glasses of champagne. He handles his alcohol decently well, but it’s enough to loosen up the Russian’s already honest, brutal tongue. Yuuri goes to turn away from Chris and Yurio and suddenly Victor is lounging all across his back, forcing Yuuri to hold up his weight with a squawk of surprise. 

 

“Yuuuuurrriiiii~!”

 

It’s exclaimed right next to his ear and Yuuri winces even as his cheeks warm a little at the close contact. 

 

“You won gold! That means we have to get married!” Victor cheers loudly, his nose trailing down Yuuri’s neck and making the young man stiffen. Across from them, Chris is looking amused and intrigued, but Yurio’s eyes are murderous as his fingers clench around his glass. 

 

“A-Ah...Victor, you don’t…” Yuuri sputters softly, his voice going quiet. 

 

People are starting to stare, a lot of them. He’s the gold medalist of the evening, all eyes and cameras are trained on him, waiting for a moment exactly like this to juice up their scripts for their magazines and rumor blogs. It hurts to hear Victor joke so plainly about something so close to his heart, when he’s the one who has wanted it to be real for so long. Victor in his stupor is undeterred by all the attention, the gathering crowds and Yuuri shrinking beneath the attention, breath warming the shell of Yuuri’s ear as he leans obnoxiously closer. Yuuri whimpers a little. What was this? Had Victor actually meant it, all that time ago? 

 

Victor’s grin is teasing, sloppy at the edges with too much wine and champagne. 

 

“We all know you love me, Yuuri! Come on, admit it! You really want us to get married!” Victor cajoles, his swaying body making Yuuri stumble back and forth to accommodate. His cheeks hurt, but the dread and embarrassment is far more profound. 

 

“Victor shut the fuck up,” Yurio snaps, his voice low and fist clenched at his side. 

 

“No, let him,” Chris purrs, grinning over the lip of his glass as he sips at it. “Well, Yuuri? Do you love your coach? How naughty!” It’s an innocent enough tease, but it’s like Chris is taking the dagger and twisting it in his heart. Victor latches onto his friend’s encouragement and spins Yuuri around, bright blues staring eagerly down at the Japanese skater.

 

“I know you love me, Yuuri!” Victor crows, his finger jabbing in a sloppily aimless but almost accusatory fashion into Yuuri’s chest, and then leans down and kisses him soundly in front of hundreds of people. 

 

Yuuri’s world screeches to a halt, and he can’t help how his eyes shut and his hands shakily find Victor’s shirt.  _ Is this real? Victor?  _ His mind is like white noise, all functions flatlining as the culmination of all his dreams and feelings comes to fruition. 

 

Then Victor is retreating, leaving Yuuri dazed, and he’s...laughing? It’s almost mocking, satisfactory and smug in ways that gore Yuuri open and leave him bleeding out. This isn’t his Victor - but then again, his Victor had been built up and idolized in his head for so long, it was becoming hard to reconcile the two in his mind. 

 

“See? I knew it! It’s okay Yuuri, lots of people love me,” he winks, grin unmoving. “Now you can say you were kissed by Victor Nikiforov! That’s even better than a gold medal! Consider it your congratulations! I knew you could get gold if you loved me, and you skated for me too!”

 

Yuuri’s breath hitches hard in his chest, and he stares silently at Victor, who just outed Yuuri’s feelings for him shamelessly in front of reporters, family, and friends. Who just mocked and undermined every sincere feeling Yuuri had for the man, and then drove the knife home with a misleading, meaningless kiss. Victor had kissed Yuuri’s chin, his forehead, his cheeks and hands. He’d tried at times to kiss him properly, but Yuuri was a romantic at heart, and even he could not lower himself that far out of unrequited love. But here he was, drunk and careless, taking Yuuri’s first kiss. Yuuri’s  _ first kiss. _ Taken by the man he’d always wanted to give it to, but in the most painful and mortifying way possible. 

 

He stumbles backward, one trembling hand going up to his lips. The world’s getting a little blurry, and he realizes belatedly that he’s starting to tear up. 

 

“V-Victor?” 

 

The world finally seems to jerk back into motion, soft gasps and whispers emanating from the audience. Then Yurio is dropping his glass and shoving Victor hard in the chest, sending the man stumbling and falling onto his ass. 

 

“What the fuck you bastard! I can’t believe you!” Yuuri has never heard Yurio so furious, and the rest dissolves into senseless Russian as he follows Victor down to the floor, fist cocking back. Yuuri yelps and throws himself at Yurio, clutching Yurio’s hand desperately. 

 

“No! Yuri stop!” 

 

The blond whips his head around in frustrated surprise as Chris abruptly comes forth and drags Victor up and away from the two Yuris. 

 

“He just fucking kissed you, Yuuri!” Yurio seethes, though his voice quiets a little from his screaming, aware of all the eyes on them. 

 

“I know,” Yuuri chokes, and the tears can’t be held back this time. 

 

“I-I know,” he repeats in a hiccup, and both his hands cling to Yurio’s fist, as if afraid of letting go. He just stares at their hands, feeling his world fall apart. He vaguely realizes Phichit is ushering people away from where he and Yurio are kneeling on the floor, trying to do damage control as Victor whines to Chris, asking what he did wrong. 

 

Yurio turns away from where Victor is still dazed on the ground, never removing his balled up fist from Yuuri’s hands, and wraps an angrily shaking hand around the nape of Yuuri’s neck. It only stills and steadies when skin meets skin, like Yuuri is the one grounding Yurio instead of the other way around. As if Yuuri isn’t already clinging to Yurio like he might drown in his own shame and tears if he lets go now. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Yurio mutters, and Yuuri is too out of it to figure out what he’s apologizing for. Victor’s actions? His own? 

 

“I want to go,” Yuuri chokes, and Yurio nods. That’s all there is to it. He stands and hauls Yuuri to his feet, leading him towards the door with one arm wrapped around his back. They make it all the way to the elevator, Yurio pushing reporters away until the doors close, and then Yuuri’s resolve breaks. 

 

He instinctively reaches out for Yurio, fisting his hands in the boy’s coat and crying into Yurio’s shoulder. Yuuri expects to be pushed away, to be yelled at just like after his first Grand Prix Final. It never comes. 

 

Instead Yurio tugs him in close, squeezing firmly. He’s stiff and nervous, but it’s enough for Yuuri until they reach their floor to just lean against Yurio and cry. 

 

The hotel room floors are empty of reporters and photographers, for the privacy of the competitors. Yurio leads him down the empty corridor, and Yuuri lifts his puffy eyes in bewilderment.

 

“Where - ?”

 

“You’re staying with me tonight,” Yurio snaps rudely, face red as he aggressively swipes his key card through the door system. Yuuri doesn’t question it, letting himself be led swiftly inward and sat down on the bed. 

 

These won’t be the last tears he sheds over Victor Nikiforov, but he has hit a point where they stop and leave him numb and dazed. 

 

“He...that was my first kiss,” Yuuri whispers, staring down at his open palms on his lap helplessly. 

 

Yurio makes a noise like he’s just been punched in the gut, and he growls something in Russian that Yuuri doesn’t bother translating. He only looks up when Yurio squats in front of him, firmly and unapologetically taking hold of Yuuri’s empty hands with his own, intense blue-green eyes staring at him. 

 

“You deserve better than him,” Yurio says, softer than anything Yuuri has ever heard from him. It contrasts the tight grip of his hands on Yuuri’s, the way they squeeze in emphasis. He believes what he’s saying so firmly, Yuuri can feel it in the pressure of their joined hands. Yurio truly thinks that Victor doesn’t deserve Yuuri. Yuuri doesn’t agree. Even so, Yuuri can’t help but smile at Yurio’s dedication even when his heart feels like it’s shattering in his chest. 

 

“No, Yura. I deserved exactly this.”

 

Katsuki Yuuri would never be enough for Victor Nikiforov. He was a fool to have thought he could be different than all the others who had been charmed by the legendary skater. 

 

One hand tentatively touches his cheek, making Yuuri jolt. Yurio looked like some odd mix of furious and fond. Maybe sad?

 

“No, Yuuri. You didn’t. You really didn’t.”

 

The tears come again after that, and Yuuri shamelessly tugs Yurio up off his knees and onto the bed with him until he has cried himself out. Hes exhausted by the end of it, hands still desperately clutching Yurio’s shirt as the Russian holds onto him gently, almost nervously. Unsure where to put his hands. 

 

“Thank you, Yura,” Yuuri whispers tiredly against the soft skin of Yurio’s collarbone. A noncommittal grunt is his only response, and Yuuri smiles weakly as he drifts off to sleep. 

 

Yurio stares down at Yuuri’s sleeping, tear-stained face and feels his own eyes sting suspiciously. 

 

“Stupid katsudon…”

 

Yuuri wakes up to Yurio’s Russian jacket held close to his chest, his shoes removed and curled beneath the blankets. He can hear mumbled Russian in one of the other rooms - these suites always were extravagant - signifying that Yurio hadn’t left him throughout the night. He may not have remained at Yuuri’s side, but it’s more than he’s ever gotten with Victor. 

 

Yuuri buries his face in Yurio’s jacket, content to hide away from the world a little bit longer with Yurio. 


	2. Striped Carnations -- Rejection; Wish I Could Be With You

The journey back to St. Petersburg is tense, to say the least. The morning after, Victor is already pounding on Yurio’s hotel door, calling his and Yuuri’s names frantically. Yuuri seems to wither and withdraw into himself the minute he hears Victor’s voice on the other side of the door, and it’s enough to send Yurio’s protective instincts into overdrive. Hackles already raised, the young Russian teen slams the door open, narrowly avoiding Victor who jumps back out of the way. 

 

“What the fuck do you want, Nikiforov?” Yurio spits, drawing himself up as tall as possible, reaching out and yanking the door back in so that Victor has no room to sneak by or see into the room. Victor tries nonetheless, using his superior height to try and scan the inside of the suite. Yurio knows exactly what - or rather who - he’s looking for. 

 

He won’t find him from the entryway. Yurio knows for a fact that Yuuri is hiding in the little kitchenette, probably listening to every word that’s going to go down right here. 

 

“Please Yurio. I have to see him, I have to...I need to apologize, and explain.” Victor looks like a mess alright, Yurio will give him that. His normally pristine silver locks are tousled and he has dark bags under his eyes, clearly distressed. For a moment he thinks about letting him in, having the two hash it out on their own instead of dragging him into this stupid mess. He has steadfastly  refused to admit to himself that nobody else had taken the initiative to involve him, that he had willingly stepped forward in defense of Yuuri last night. 

 

For a second, his grip on the handle almost loosens, but then he remembers Yuuri’s tearstained face and the way he’d walked around like a ghost that morning, occasionally touching his lips with a lost expression on his face. The way he seemed to migrate around Yurio, no matter how crabby or gruff the blond got about the invasion of his personal space. How Yuuri still hadn’t touched his phone, likely fearing the news and messages he’d find there. 

 

The handle whines under his hand as his resolve strengthens, his narrowed eyes staring Victor down. 

 

“No, you need to get the fuck away from my room and let him decide when he wants to forgive your sorry ass!” Yurio shouts. He’s tempted to swing at Victor as he’d attempted to the night before. The memory of Yuuri desperately clutching his hand is the only thing that stays him. Yuuri doesn’t deserve any more drama, not after being made a fool and outed in front of an entire crowd of reporters. If not socking Victor in his stupid fucking face ensures Yuuri’s comfort, then Yurio will suck it up. 

 

Victor’s face goes a little rigid, clearly disapproving, but Yurio cuts him off the second his mouth opens to try and plead his case.

 

“I’m serious, Victor. You’ve done enough. Leave him the fuck alone for now.” 

 

The two Russians stare each other down in the hallway, tension cresting between them until Victor finally sighs and runs a tired hand through his hair and then over his face. 

 

“Okay...okay, you’re right. Just...look out for him, please?” It’s a pitifully weak sentence coming from someone as self-assured as Victor Nikiforov, and Yurio wants to know who the hell he thinks he is trying to look out for Yuuri’s well being after turning his best achievement into his worst nightmare. Instead he scoffs and nods his head jerkily, and slams the door when Victor turns and sluggishly walks away. He’s still muttering hatefully to himself when he turns around and looks up to see Yuuri standing frozen and lost in the kitchen, staring down at his hands like he’s unsure what he’s supposed to do now. 

 

Yurio sighs and awkwardly crosses his arms, leaning against the wall next to the kitchen. How the fuck is he supposed to fix this? Yeah, everyone knew that Yuuri loved Victor more than life and skating and...well, everything it seemed. But they also knew that Yuuri and Victor were incredibly close friends, that they inspired and supported one another in ways the rest of the rink couldn’t understand. This wasn’t an easy split, and Yurio could only imagine the maelstrom in Yuuri’s head right then. He didn’t have as much firsthand experience with Yuuri’s anxiety like Victor, but he wasn’t stupid. 

 

“You don't have to give that asshole the time of day if you don't want to,” Yurio grumbles, not sure how to comfort or fill the silence after Victor’s arrival. It only seems to make Yuuri uncomfortable however, the skater shrinking back and rubbing his hands together nervously.

 

“He was just drunk, he didn’t mean -” Yuuri’s words are lost as Yurio turns and kicks angrily at the floor, a scowl twisting at his lips. 

 

“That’s not a fucking excuse! He does it all the time Yuuri, you deserve better than that egotistical asshat!” Okay maybe he’s going a bit far, especially when he knows (oh, how he knows) how Yuuri is so head over heels for the other Russian. It’s not fair to expect Yuuri’s new clarity of vision regarding Victor to erase that.

 

But it miraculously seems to work, something in his words or tone of voice snapping Yuuri out of his wilting silence. In fact he’s smiling, which takes Yurio off guard. 

 

“What the fuck are you smiling for?” He snaps, feeling his cheeks heat up at seeing that small smile directed right at him. And then Yuuri has the audacity to laugh. Laugh! It’s a small laugh, more of a giggle than anything, but Yurio hates it. As if he wasn't already feeling like someone was tying his stomach in knots. Asshole. 

 

“Nothing, just. Thank you Yuri. You didn't have to do all of this.” 

 

Yurio’s face went hot and he scoffed, yanking his hand up through his hair and turning sharply away from the other skater. Who did he think he was, calling Yurio by his real name after all this time? 

 

“Whatever. Just pack your bags I'm not going to be late for our flight!”

  
\------  
  


Yurio makes sure to do it behind Katsudon’s back - he can't handle that shy smile god damn it - but he bribes Mila into switching seats with Yuuri, who had been next to Victor. It's not as difficult as he thought it'd be. Normally Mila is far too eager to barter and blackmail. Then again, she loved Yuuri even more than she loved Yurio (that cheating hag). She was probably wanting to give Victor hell for the entire long plane ride. Yurio couldn't help but feel vindictively pleased at the thought. 

 

Except Yurio really, really didn't think his arrangement through. 

 

Yuuri is notoriously drowsy on long flights, while Yurio spends most of his time cramped and bitching or on his phone (or both more often than not). So when he glances over and Yuuri is nodding off against his shoulder, he's pretty sure he has a heart attack right then and there.  Yuuri had cried into his shoulder for what seemed like half the night and Yurio is sure he's had all the closeness he can handle within a 24 hour period. At the very least he makes a garbled noise somewhere between a scream and a prayer for help. 

 

Yuuri rolls his cheek against Yurio’s shoulder and glances up at him. Yurio is almost terrified to look back. 

 

“Is this okay?” Yuuri mumbles, clearly already halfway towards sleep anyway. 

 

Yurio’s first instinct is to shout that ‘no, you fucker, of course it's not okay! Get the fuck off!’ But Yuuri is warm and steady on his shoulder, and he can't help but sink a little into the touch. People don't generally willingly cuddle up to him. And maybe he puffs a little bit in pride that Yuuri is leaning on  _ him _ , trusting him to support him physically while he sleeps. 

 

“Just don't drool on me,” he mutters, not his strongest comeback but at least it's something. Yuuri just smiles sleepily like he knows all the world’s secrets and promptly passes out tucked up against Yurio’s side. 

 

At first the Russian teen is stiff and nervous, but it's a long flight back to St. Petersburg and eventually exhaustion is enough to lull him into comfort. He leans closer to Yuuri, the adjustment making the Japanese skater mumble and shove his nose against Yurio’s neck, but he calms quickly enough. Yurio doesn't know why he feels like a pervert, and makes a note to punch Victor in the face for experiencing this and probably feeling the same way. 

 

Then there's nothing but sleep, the two Yuris curling into one another, unaware of Georgi sneaking pictures from across the aisle. 

  
\------  
  


Yurio, Mila and Georgi become the Yuuri Protection Squad. It's enough to drive Yakov to his deathbed, and it's ironic because they didn't even plan it in the first place. They all have their own reasons; Georgi is a romantic at heart, and Yuuri had always taken the time to listen to him instead of making fun of him. The idea that Victor had mocked his feelings and ruined his gold medal in front of everyone had put him firmly on Yuuri’s side. Mila is the only one still associating with and talking to Victor, but her usual warmth is conspicuously absent. She and Yuuri were friends, good ones at that, and she wouldn't let Victor pressure Yuuri into talking to him. 

 

Then there was Yurio, whose venomous glares and spitting words keep Victor far out of arm’s reach. He essentially glues himself to Yuuri, eyeing Victor across the rink whenever they practice. Yakov’s exasperation and shouting has no effect on Yurio. 

 

“You don't have to do this you guys,” Yuuri finally speaks up about a week into the Russians’ ostracization of Victor. It  _ was  _ getting a little ridiculous. He always has to worry about Yurio when he does his jumps, because the teen was adamant on skating as close as possible. Like Yuuri somehow needed to be physically kept out of Victor’s sight. 

 

It does nothing to dissuade the trio. Victor’s dramatic wailing to Yakov over how his own countrymen and rinkmates preferred Yuuri over him weren't entirely incorrect. 

 

Yuuri finally takes things into his own hands. 

 

He feels guilty for isolating Victor from his friends, even if it hadn't been his decision. One week wasn't enough time to heal, but he couldn't stand the silence of the apartment anymore. The awkward shuffling that only reminded him of his heartache and foolishness. Yuuri couldn't deal with it any longer. 

 

When they hit their break, Yuuri waves Yurio on. The teen pauses, suspicion immediately creeping onto his face. Then realization. He doesn’t stop Yuuri, but he lingers just long enough for him to know exactly what he thinks of the idea. 

 

“Fine.” he relents. “But don't be surprised if he fucks this up too.” Yurio mutters, spinning and stalking away. Yuuri is left staring at his retreating back, frowning. It was no surprise that Yurio is slower to forgive than Yuuri, even if the it was the latter who had been the one shamed and embarrassed. Yurio is just built that way, Yuuri thinks, and the Japanese man tries not to feel like Yurio should have any reason to be disappointed in  _ him _ .

 

Turning with a sigh he walks over to where Victor sits working at unlacing his skates.

 

“Um…can we talk?” 

 

It doesn’t come out as strong as Yuuri intends; there’s a soft warble to the words that makes him wince. Victor’s head snaps up, his shocked expression melting into something soft and desperate that makes Yuuri’s heart lurch.

 

“Yeah, yeah of course! Just um…” Victor’s eyes dart to his skates and he quickly yanks them off without bothering to neatly wrap the laces as per usual. It is one of the most telling signs of his state of mind as he slips his street shoes on and quickly stands to face Yuuri. 

 

They stand just that way, facing each other in silence, for several long, drawn out moments. Yuuri’s hands are shoved deep in his hoodie pocket, and Victor’s twist nervously in front of him in contrast. They catch and hold one another’s gaze, each feeling that they’re the one held captive in that moment by the other. Victor has a knack for looking astonishingly like a kicked puppy when he’s seeking forgiveness. His wide blue eyes are beseeching and Yuuri (whose kind heart already knows and loves those eyes) has always been especially susceptible to them.

 

“I'm so sorry for what I did, Yuuri. It was rude and indelicate and shameful, and I'm so sorry for doing it in front of everybody. I never intended to bring it up, I thought you would get over me and -” Victor’s babbling is quickly cut off by a sharp inhale from Yuuri. 

 

There is another pause. “So you...you knew? All this time?” Yuuri’s voice breaks in the middle, the sting of new tears makes his eyes ache. He can’t seem to hold eye contact anymore and shifts ever so slightly to focus shimmering brown eyes at a spot just over Victor’s shoulder.

 

Victor’s regretful expression is all the answer Yuuri needs, but he couldn't stop the words that came after. 

 

“Of course I knew. A lot of my fans love me in some way, Yuuri. I wanted to inspire you and bring you to the level I knew you could compete on. And if you drew inspiration from loving me...I just thought you would have found somebody, or would learn to rely on your own confidence,” his voice trails off, clearly at least partially aware of how carelessly manipulative he's been with Yuuri’s emotions. 

 

Yuuri is still. His voice tremulous. “And you. You don’t feel--you never--” There’s a question in there somewhere but Yuuri doesn’t really need to finish. By now they both know the answer.

 

Yuuri prays that he sees some kind of heartbreak in Victor’s eyes. Any kind of sign that will prevent this last nail from being driven into his heart. Instead all he can see is the softness of Victor’s blue eyes, the regret and apology there that Yuuri is already so sick of seeing. 

 

“I’m sorry, Yuuri,” Victor murmurs, one hand reaching out as if to bring Yuuri in to embrace him. Yuuri jerks back and away, his hand splaying across his chest, wishing he could claw his heart out through his sternum. The first and only person he’d ever loved. It only made sense he’d fail at that, too. 

 

“D-Don’t. Just...just don’t,” Yuuri chokes, because Victor hasn’t even said it but he’d rather never hear it anyway. Wishes he hadn’t heard the apology either, for all it symbolizes. Can he truly be sorry after all that? After manipulating him, embarrassing him, leading him on? Letting him fall deeper and deeper in love, seeing things where they didn’t exist without putting Yuuri out of his misery. 

 

Victor steps forward, refusing to allow Yuuri to walk away so soon after they finally started talking. “Yuuri please, can’t we just go back to how it was? You’re my best friend, you inspire me so much to skate. I know I screwed up, but please. Come home?” Those puppy eyes come right back, pleading with a part of Yuuri that doesn’t know how to live and breathe anymore. He retreats one more step.

 

It’s not home anymore.  _ Home is where Victor is. Where the ice is. _ Except Victor had never wanted him, not in the same way Yuuri had wanted him. So...where was home, now? How could he even imagine returning to that apartment, where their toothbrushes were in the same cup, where they shared jackets and blankets and a bed? Where they took Makkachin for walks together, cooked dinner for one another? Where the line between Yuuri’s things and Victor’s things was so blurred that Yuuri had stopped drawing it. 

 

He couldn’t go back to that domestic life, where all the signs reminded him of loving Victor. Where even breathing the same air as Victor reminded him of that love. What had once been home had turned into a prison, a reminder of everything Yuuri had ever wanted and dreamed of having. Things he would never have.

 

“I can’t, Victor you know I can’t,” he cries, tears finally spilling over across his ice-chilled cheeks. 

  
\------

 

He skates. 

 

It’s not the same as Hasetsu, with its smaller rink and familiar walls. However Yuuri has never needed that. The only familiarity he needs is the sound of his blades on the ice, the cold against his cheeks, the music that pours out from the speakers. 

 

Each spin, each fluid glide of his blades across the ice pours his emotion out like a fountain. Yuuri’s breath shakes as his eyes burn, as he lets his body carry him across the ice in the most raw, intimate expression of his feelings. There’s no choreography in his mind, he just lets his legs carry him wherever they wish. He doesn’t dare to jump more than triples, his mind too far gone in a haze of heartbreak to trust himself with anything more. His heart is bruised enough, his body doesn’t need any more. 

 

The anger is slow to come, but it’s easier to feel than the heartache. Yuuri understands why Yurio uses it as a shield, now. His skates rip the ice, and he leaps headlong into a salchow. It’s one of his weakest jumps, and he knows it, but he’s so full of anger that he can’t help it. Yuuri crashes to the ice as he lands on the wrong edge of his blade, and he doesn’t bother getting up. He lays there, gritting his teeth hard against a torrent of tears, swallowing down a scream of expletives. The music dwindles out into the next song, but all Yuuri can hear is the heaving of his own breaths. 

 

A hand touches his shoulder and Yuuri jerks, his first immediate thought being Victor and naturally recoiling. The hand is not so easily removed, guiding Yuuri up to his knees, and the Japanese skater turns towards it. Peering through his sweat-soaked hair, he looks up into Yurio’s sad expression. 

 

“Come on, katsudon.”

 

Yuuri takes the hands offered to him and wobbles to his feet, letting Yurio guide him to the exit like a child holding the hand of their teacher when first learning to skate. Yurio sits him down and pops on their blade guards in silence, untying and removing both their skates efficiently. It helps, because otherwise it would be too similar to the many times Victor had done it so tenderly. 

 

When Yuuri’s sitting in his socks, staring down at his street shoes while Yurio puts on his own, he finally speaks.

 

“Why did you come back?” 

 

Morning practice always ended with a lunch break, and then the skaters dispersed to return home. Sometimes evening practice was scheduled, but only after a few hours of downtime. Yurio shouldn’t have come back to the rink on his own accord.

 

Yurio looks up at him, but whatever he finds there is clearly too much for the teen to stomach because the blond looks away sharply, standing from his squatting position and shoving his hands in his jacket pockets.

 

“I knew it wasn’t going to go well, I told you that, you just didn’t listen because you’re an idiot,” Yurio mutters a little vindictively. But then he sighs and his shoulders soften a little as he glances down at Yuuri through his bangs. 

 

“I thought...I’m not good at all this listening and caring shit, but I wanted to make sure you were, y’know, okay. And if you ever wanna talk shit about Victor, I’m up for that,” he smirks, though it’s weak at best. It’s the quickest and easiest way to cover up the sincerity of his prior words though, so if it means cracking a joke to distract Yuuri, Yurio is willing to sacrifice his pride.

 

What he isn’t expecting is for Yuuri to tilt his head and smile at him like sunshine itself, even through the sadness. Yuuri’s eyelashes still have little tears clinging to them, and his cheeks are red and he has ice in his hair from his fall. 

 

“Thank you, Yura. You’re an amazing person.”

 

_ Oh fuck, I’m so fucked, fuck he’s cute. _

 

Yurio’s face goes red faster than blood should conceivably travel through the human body, and he rips his gaze away from Yuuri’s sweet smiling face lest he say something incriminating or stupid (or worse, mean) to wipe that expression off the older skater’s face. 

 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Sing my praises, doesn’t mean I’m any less right that Victor was gonna fuck shit up,” Yurio mumbles, his chest feeling suspiciously tight. Yuuri just laughs a little at Yurio’s griping because that at least is a normal thing, a comfortable thing. He slides on his own shoes, tying them neatly (that nerd) instead of just yanking them on already knotted like Yurio does. 

 

They walk out together in companionable silence, the chill of Russian springtime just as brisk as the indoor ice rink. 

 

“I’m starving. Come eat with me.” Yurio demands bluntly. A spark of sass, flickering tentatively but still present, seems to curl in the corners of Yuuri’s sly smile.

 

“You’re paying then!”

  
\------

 

Lunch turns into the rest of the day together. Yurio doesn’t mention the fact that Yuuri is clearly avoiding returning to Victor’s apartment - he just keeps them moving. Demanding, ushering, dragging Yuuri around St. Petersburg shamelessly. Communication isn’t his strongest trait, but Yuuri is patient and ultimately willing to be carted around behind Yurio for the entire day. 

 

As night begins to fall, Yurio’s face grows closed off and contemplative. Yuuri says nothing, aware of his own tendency to wander around until he finds what his heart is searching for. The ring around his finger burns, but he doesn’t have the heart to take it off just yet. Instead he just follows Yurio as he leads them down the boardwalk of the Neva River.

 

“Oi, katsudon. Want to see something?” Yurio turns over his shoulder, both hands casually interlocked behind his head, and something vulnerable is in his eyes. It reminds Yuuri of their time together in the waterfall, and he can’t deny Yurio in that moment. 

 

“Of course!”

 

They head off together, veering away from the city and across a few bridges. They catch the bus together, and Yurio chuckles at Yuuri’s wide eyes as he listens in on fluid Russian. The scenery outside is nothing but city lights across the water until it breaks away abruptly into a sprawling park of greenery. Yurio pulls Yuuri off the bus hastily, one hand around the older skater’s wrist. Yuuri stumbles and eagerly hurries along, the two of them jogging side by side, their breaths puffing in crystal clouds as they dodge and weave around curious, frowning pedestrians. 

 

Finally Yurio slows, leading them through the gardens and watching Yuuri’s face glow in awe as he stares around at the flowers and waterways, the grand architecture and the water fowl that waddle hopefully after visitors. Yurio can’t help the smile that creeps onto his own face at Yuuri’s expressions, reminiscing over how he’d reacted quite the same when Yuuri had shown him the secrets of Hasetsu and Kyushu. 

 

“What is this place? It’s beautiful,” Yuuri murmurs, spinning in a slow circle beneath the lights strung in the trees in preparation for the Russian New Year. 

 

“Приморский парк Победы,” Yurio promptly replies, a smug smile on his lips. It only grows when Yuuri turns, confusion clear on his face. It’s not his fault, two out of the three words are ones he definitely would never need in daily conversation. 

 

“Maritime Victory Park. I like to come here a lot. Here, I’ll show you!” Again Yurio catches his wrist and pulls him forward, until they arrive at a white pagoda sitting on the water. It’s the crown jewel of the park, but this late at night it’s vacant of all tourists and natives. 

 

Yurio trails Yuuri as the black-haired skater hops up the steps eagerly, staring out across the water in awe. 

 

“It reminds me of the bridge towards Hasetsu Castle! And Barcelona, when we had pirozhki!” Yuuri gasps, immediately running down the outside steps to the edge of the water. Yurio follows at a smug, leisurely pace, hooking his thumbs in his jean pockets. He can’t deny the pride he feels that Yuuri likens it to that night after the Grand Prix. His grandfather’s katsudon pirozhki had been amazing, after all. Yuuri’s excitement quiets, though his smile is still awed and bright on his face. Yurio leans over and nudges him with his shoulder.

 

“Hey.” He waits until Yuuri turns his attention to him instead of the lights across the water. “What now? With...y’know, everything.” He shrugs listlessly, not wanting to bring Victor up when they’d managed to avoid it all evening. Unfortunately they had to talk about it, and soon. The night was dwindling, and Yuuri would have to return to the apartment before too long. They couldn’t avoid the topic forever. 

 

“I...I was thinking I should leave Russia.”

 

Yurio spins on his heel, advancing and grabbing Yuur’s shoulders, feeling a strong urge to physically shake that stupid thought from his head.

 

“What?! You’re just going to leave because of Victor’s stupid ass?! You just won gold at the Grand Prix, you’ve got to be kidding me!” he shouts, pulling Yuuri in close until they’re almost nose to nose. Close enough to see how Yuuri’s eyes go wide in surprise. After all they’d been through in the past year Yurio would be damned if he’s going to let Yuuri give it up now.

 

“No! No, not...not entirely. Yurio I’m not retiring,” Yuuri placates gently, placing his hands over Yurio’s and gently easing them down off his jacket. 

 

Yurio still feels like maybe the axis of his world is too far to the right, but he lets his hands fall limp and waits for an explanation. Even if his narrowed eyes never cease their glaring. He will always push Yuuri step for step, until the idiot realizes he doesn’t need Victor or fans or a relic of a costume to be a top skater. All Yurio wants is for Yuuri to skate from his own power and confidence. The idea of Yuuri retiring, especially over Victor instead or his own anxiety, is just as terrifying as it was the last Grand Prix. 

 

“I was thinking of going back to Detroit. With Celestino?” It almost sounds nervous, like Yuuri is waiting for Yurio’s approval or advice somehow. Which is stupid because Yurio doesn't care what Yuuri does, he doesn't. But...it's not a terrible idea. Celestino had groomed Phichit for a few amazing gold medals, and with what Yuuri could take away from his year in Russia, the Japanese man could flourish in Detroit this time. Yurio grimaced and reluctantly accepted that image. 

 

“You'd do good under that weird Italian guy,” he mutters reluctantly. A large part of him doesn't want to care about Yuuri’s feelings and how hard it is for him to stay in Russia. He just wants him to  _ stay.  _ The logical part of him knows that Yuuri just can't do that right now. He may be stronger now, but even Yuuri isn't strong enough to handle seeing Victor every day. Living with him. 

 

It hurts him to say, to encourage Yuuri when he knows it means saying goodbye again. But Yuuri’s tentative, hopeful smile at his admission almost makes it worth it. 

 

“I emailed him about it, he said he can take me on. I'll probably be leaving once I pack everything…” Yuuri’s voice drifts away, almost seeming reluctant now that he's voicing it out in the open. Yurio wonders if he’ll miss Russia more than he anticipates. 

 

“Hey.” Yuuri’s attention turns back to Yurio when he speaks. “You'll be fine. You already kicked mine and Victor’s asses once. Just...don't forget about us... Mila and Georgi and, uh”  _ and me  _ “and everyone.” he grumbles, shoulders hitching up around his ears defensively. But it earns him another smile, even if this one is tinged with sadness. 

 

Until Yuuri steps forward and wraps his arms around Yurio’s neck in a hug, making the blond sputter and flail and shriek. Used to it by now, it only makes Yuuri laugh overtop his screeching, hanging on until Yurio thaws and removes one hand from his hoodie to place it on the small of Yuuri’s back and hugging him in return. Even if he still mutters under his breath about clingy idiots. 

 

They stand there hugging for longer than Yurio expects, but something tremulous and unknown in him urges him to tuck his face against Yuuri’s shoulder and breathe in the scent there. When Yuuri finally retreats, he looks calmer. Steadier. Oddly enough Yurio feels that way too. It’s better than nothing, at least. 

 

They spend another hour wandering around the park, reverting to their usual easy dynamic as Yuuri takes pictures of everything and ignores Yurio while he gripes about it.  _ Probably something he got from Phichit, _ Yurio thinks while he rolls his eyes. 

 

Yuuri returns to the apartment, eventually. Yurio can’t help but wonder why he’d invited Yuuri to such a special place. Why it hadn’t felt like an invasion the entire night.

  
\------

 

Victor doesn’t take the news well. 

 

The entire rink turns into chaos when Yuuri finally announces to the rink that he’s returning to Detroit to be coached by Celestino. Mila and Georgi are understandably distraught - Yuuri was so kind and patient with them, so unlike Yurio, Victor and Yakov. Even Yakov looks regretful and saddened, if only because Yuuri is the only skater who actually listens and respects his judgments. Lilia, who had taken over Yuuri’s ballet instruction, even seems a bit teary. They hug him in rounds, some (Georgi and Mila, really) repeatedly. 

 

Victor is just...standing there. Yurio’s never seen his face so slack and expressionless, and it’s genuinely creepy. Luckily - or rather, unluckily - it doesn’t last long. Victor explodes in a stream of angry Russian that has the natives cringing and Lilia’s eyes narrowing deeply in clear disapproval. Yuuri flinches back, clearly surprised by the vehemence in his voice as Victor stalks over and grabs his wrist with a sharp, greedy tug.

 

“Yuuri no! You can’t just leave, I’m your coach! I’ll...I’ll go with you, this is silly. Why are you being like this?!” His anger bleeds into impatience and winds itself into a petulant pout. Yurio takes a quick step forward, wary, but after a shocked glance at his captured wrist, Yuuri moves his brown eyes up to face Victor’s impatient blue ones. Victor’s expression is childlike, Yuuri realizes, and not in a good way; it’s the selfish, petulant greedy look of a child who only wants a toy after it’s been taken away from them. 

 

The worst thing for Yuuri is that it rather… _ fits _ on Victor. He’s always been self-absorbed, but Yuuri had been so absorbed by him too, and he’d loved Viktor anyway.

 

“Victor, no, I...I have to do this alone, you  _ know _ that. You know why,” He tries for calm, tries to be firm but the last part still comes out on a little whimper as he retracts his hand and takes a decided step backward. That seems like the end of it, the line drawn in the sand, and the expression on Yuuri’s face has the other skaters slowly dispersing. They can say goodbyes later, they’re all aware this is a private matter. All but Yurio. 

 

The young man eyes Victor with an antagonistic if not predatory stare, tensed like his tiger namesake. He’s not going to leave this time. He’s not going to come back to Yuuri crying on the ice, and he’s not going to pick up the pieces Victor makes of Yuuri’s heart time and time again. This time he’ll be here to prevent it, to stop it from getting that far. Yuuri and Victor are too wrapped up in looking at eachother that they don’t notice the danger there. 

 

“This...this isn’t a big deal Yuuri! Come on let’s just go home and we can talk it out, okay? Just come on, come with me,” Victor whines the demand, reaching out again for Yuuri’s arm.

 

“It’s a big deal to me!” Yuuri pulls back faster this time, nearly running into Yurio. He is surprised at the resolve in his voice, the anger there that shimmers underneath the overwhelming hurt. He almost stops to marvel at his own show of spine but Yurio is already on the move.

 

He tries to skirt around Yuuri, arms already pulling back to shove Victor away _ again.  _

 

“No Yura!” Yuuri’s voice is firm again, and before the blond can get past him, the dark-haired skater is clamping the scrappy youth’s arms to his side. And placing him back where he’s started. Yurio hisses an angry protest, fierce eyes still trained on Victor, but he stays where he is put. 

 

Yuri turns back to Victor, emboldened by the protector hovering at his back, but resolute in his decision now more than ever. “You let me fall in love with you, brought me here to Russia and let me misunderstand everything you ever did or said to me! I can’t be here Victor.  I can’t be here and I can’t be around you!” Yuuri’s voice is almost a shout by the end and when the silence follows it rings in the cavernous arena. 

 

The expression on Victor’s face is a mix of flabbergasted and horrified, and Yurio can’t help but tug his eyes away to glance in surprise at the soft-hearted man finally taking a stand for himself. 

 

After a slow quavering breath to steady himself, Yuuri turns on his heel to leave, flinging out a hand to grasp the arm of Yurio’s jacket and drag him out after him. Yurio doesn’t fight that pull and neither so much as glance back at Victor.

 

Yuuri is in Detroit within 48 hours.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! Thank you for reading chapter two. LuluBean and I wanted to make clear that Victor isn't evil, nor manipulative (we're both Victuuri shippers, never fear) he's just naturally self-absorbed and almost childish (very "oooh, shiny, gimme gimme!"). He will eventually redeem himself! But that doesn't mean we can't fuck with him a little hehehe. This is our reaction to our version of Victor in this fic: http://till-kingdom-come.tumblr.com/post/155374720688/mrsmiawallaces-this-vine-gives-me-life and go follow LuluBean while you're at it!


	3. Plumeria -- New Beginnings

Detroit is like a familiar stranger, an acquaintance Yuuri had lost touch with and now has to meet again with fresh eyes. Phichit picks him up from the airport, and even through his best friend’s exuberance and excitement Yuuri can sense the thread of sympathy that shows itself in awkward stretches of silence and drifting eyes. The media is on fire with his departure from Russia, and Phichit - who has likely read every word written about Yuuri in his entire existence, including his birth certificate - blessedly says nothing about it. Yuuri turns off his notifications for Instagram, if only to spare himself the temptation. For twitter, too.

 

They take a cab back to Phichit’s apartment, the office already cleared and bed set up for Yuuri’s return. Phichit lets the comfortable silence settle around them; it's clear Yuuri isn't up for talking just yet. Instead he carries some of Yuuri’s luggage, and the two stumble over the bulky cargo as they wrestle them up the front steps and finally into the elevator. By then they're red-faced and laughing, leaning against one another and the elevator walls as they catch their breath.

 

“I thought that cab driver was going to kill us! What the heck did you pack Yuuri? They're so heavy for so few!” Phichit laughs as he pokes a toe at one of Yuuri’s suitcases. Yuuri is used to fitting a lot into a little to save money on flights and baggage, and he jabs Phichit playfully in the ribs in a soft retaliation to the teasing.

 

“At least I didn't pack my entire _wardrobe_ like you do!” Yuuri follows, a smirk playing on his lips that has Phichit gasping dramatically and putting a hand over his heart in mock outrage. The doors open and Yuuri darts out laughing, leaving Phichit behind with the bulk of the luggage as the Thai skater squawks indignantly behind him.

 

“Hey! Come back here! How dare you insult my fashion choices, you dress like a bum!”

  
\------

 

The night dwindles quietly as Yuuri and Phichit unpack side by side. Yuuri is so grateful for his friend, who knows when to talk and laugh, when to be silent and contemplative. It's hard to go through items that he can recall so clearly having their place in Victor’s apartment. It's like the last physical reminder that he isn't in Russia any longer, and Phichit quietly respects his silence in turn. When it's done and Yuuri remains on his shins staring vacantly at the empty suitcases, Phichit lays a gentle hand on Yuuri’s elbow and guides him away from the ghosts in his head.

 

They retreat to the kitchen, and the night kicks into full swing once again; a reunion to celebrate rather than a departure to mourn. It's a familiar dance as he and Phichit squabble over which spices to use in their dinner, bumping into each other casually as they move through the kitchen together. As the food goes in the oven, Yuuri and Phichit sit on the linoleum floor and take ridiculous selfies as they laugh and scroll through similarly ridiculous photos of their mutual friends.

 

It's there, sitting cross-legged next to his best friend on the kitchen floor, that Yuuri finally lets the tears come out. They bubble forth between his laughter, taking them both by surprise. He hasn't cried at all since he'd announced to the rink that he was leaving, and it catches up to him all at once. Yuuri goes to apologize out of habit, but Phichit (so used to him, like an extension of his own body, his own mind) just shakes his head and chases the words away.

 

Phichit gently draws Yuuri against him, tucking him under a comforting arm, their backs resting on the smooth surface of the cupboards. He whispers soft words that don't fully register as Yuuri cries into his shoulder. They sit there until the oven chimes at them, long after the tears stop. They have nowhere else to be.

  
\------

 

Celestino, bless his weird little soul, is more than welcoming when Yuuri walks in the next morning with his duffel bag slung over his shoulder and an apology written on his face. The coach merely slaps a hand across Yuuri’s shoulder and tells him to warm up. He and Phichit catch up while they lace their skates, the Thai skater filling him in on all the details of the personal lives of the other skaters they'd competed against. Yuuri smiles as the dark haired boy natters on excitedly, feeling something like peace settle in the empty spaces where Victor, Yurio, and the other skaters used to be.

 

The ice is just as welcoming here as it was Russia, though. It's the one thing that doesn't change. Yuuri glides out onto it and takes a deep breath of the crisp air, warming up leisurely with Phichit at his side. Some of the other skaters, strangers and acquaintances alike, call their welcomings to Yuuri and raise their hands in greeting. What little anxiety had crept into his mind over having left in the first place dissipates.

 

The season is dwindling down, so practice is relatively easy. Celestino is clearly still trying to figure Yuuri out, but Yuuri doesn't blame him. Yuuri is astronomically different now in comparison to when he'd first met Celestino at 17. His anxiety will never really go away. It's a part of him, an affliction he can't rid himself of entirely. But with so much consistent work with Victor, repairing his self-confidence and proving to himself finally that he could compete on Grand Prix level and _win..._ Yuuri certainly isn't the same skater that Celestino had coached previously.

 

So the first two weeks are spent learning one another all over again. Both on and off the ice. It gives Yuuri a burst of delight every time Celestino’s surprise over his jumps reveals itself. When he'd last been in Detroit they had fostered Yuuri’s talent for step sequences and timing, but his time with Victor and Yakov had shot his jumps to new heights. It had earned him the gold medal at the Grand Prix Final, after all, and had cinched his spot among the few skaters capable of the quad flip. 

 

They also go to group dinners, something they used to do but that Yuuri had missed when he'd left Detroit the first time. Phichit stick by his elbow the entire time, leaning across his shoulders to peer at menus and phone screens. Walking arm in arm through the cold of late spring back to their shared apartment. Sharing clothes and griping over laundry together.

 

It's not the same as it used to be, and Yuuri tries not to dwell on that too long lest he reopen wounds only just beginning to heal. But he can't stand the emptiness of his bed, the silence of his bedroom. Even when Victor did not crawl into bed with him, most nights there was Makkachin to curl up to. The sound of other breaths and the rustling of sheets.

 

Two weeks in he cracks and tiptoes into Phichit’s room, knocking gently and receiving his friend’s cheery invitation in. Yuuri can't deny the anxiety veritably rolling off of him, and Phichit can clearly tell by Yuuri’s body language. He sets the cellphone down and gives his attention to Yuuri. The room is lit only by one lamp on the nightstand, as they're both preparing to sleep. It's a comfort to not bare himself so fully, to hide in the shadows near the door.

 

“I...can I sleep with you?” Yuuri sputters nervously, the words tripping over each other in his haste to just _say_ them.

 

At first Phichit just stares at him, clearly shocked. Yuuri backtracks quickly, already feeling stupid as his ears burn hot.

 

“N-Nevermind just forget I said anything I just got so used to Victor and I know -”

 

By then Phichit is leaping off his bed with a bright laugh and grabbing both of Yuuri’s hands to still the nervous twisting of his fingers.

 

“No, no! You just surprised me. Come on! I don't mind,” the Thai skater beams, dragging Yuuri forward and practically shoving him under the covers. It's embarrassing, but as Phichit crawls in next to him, Yuuri can't help but be lulled to a drowsy state. It's way with the butter warm light of the lamp on Phichit’s dark skin, the soft tap of fingers hitting keys, the dimmed light of the phone. Yuuri falls asleep within minutes, legs tangled up with Phichit’s, arms around each other’s waists. Just like it used to be after a long day of skating when they didn't have the energy to get up to go to their respective beds, and fell asleep tangled on top of the covers on whoever’s bed they'd landed in.

 

The smell of shampoo and laundry soap isn't the same as Victor’s brands, the natural scents off as well. But it's still familiar and comforting. His heart doesn't pound nervously like it always did with Victor, and Yuuri falls asleep with a smile on his face.

  
\------

 

The first text comes through two days after he and Phichit start sleeping in the same bed. Eventually they just drag Yuuri’s bed out of his room and shove them together in Phichit’s for extra room. It’s entirely platonic, but neither seem bothered by the closeness. Plus it was a great way to fight off the chill when they didn’t want to pay for extra heating.

 

Yuuri wakes up to his alarm and slides out of bed, letting Phichit - who is notorious for sleeping in until the last minute and still looking handsome and put together by the time they leave - continue dozing as he goes about morning routine. When his phone pings on the counter as he’s eating some sugar-filled cereal Phichit is obsessed with, he quirks a brow and leans over to look at the screen displaying part of it.

 

Yuuri then promptly chokes and inhales at least two pieces of cereal that he has to hack up. If it didn’t kill him by clogging his arteries, it was going to kill him by asphyxiation apparently. He shoves his spoon back in the bowl and picks up his phone, punching in the password with shaking fingers. It’s an innocent text, but he can’t help his reaction. Nobody from Russia had texted him after he had landed and answered them when they asked if he had safely arrived. He had asked for privacy on social media, not wanting to deal with the backlash and rumors, and it seemed they had been giving him the same space.

 

Except one angry teenager clearly had grown bored of that kind of respect.

 

_Yura [06:27am]: hey katsudon, you better not think you can just cut us out because you moved to detroit! it’s boring here now that i have to deal with victor alone, you better make up for it_

 

Yuuri can’t help but snort and smile, not only at Yurio’s complete hatred for capitalization, but the aggressive way he words something so simple. His fingers tap across his phone, entirely forgetting his cereal where it sits getting soft already.

 

He does some mental calculation for the time difference. Yurio must be preparing for an evening practice if it was almost 2:30pm there. Yuuri smiles to himself and wonders how long Yurio blustered to himself before he broke down and texted him.

 

_Yuuri [06:28am]: You’ve handled Victor for years, Yura. Are you the one who’s going to lose their hair from all the stress? You better not be bald when I see you next!_

 

Texting is far easier for Yuuri, whose sass comes through strong when he can hide behind his phone screen and relax outside of social activities. He bites his lip against a grin, amused to see the ellipses pop up immediately, imagining Yurio’s furious typing. Hopefully he wouldn’t throw his phone again, like Mila had told him about.

 

_Yura [6:28am]: SHUT THE FUCK UP. my hair is way better than victor’s, i’ll shave his head while he’s asleep if i have to. maybe he’ll cry or use that mutt’s fur as a toupee_

 

Yuuri ended up laughing so hard he woke up Phichit, who joined in the second he read the text on Yuuri’s phone.

 

If it ended up being screenshot and posted on Instagram, Yuuri placed full responsibility on Phichit. Though, even with how hurt he still felt over Victor, it was hilarious to see the man’s teary-eyed-emoji filled response in the comments. It ended up in a selfie war between Yurio (posing while brushing or braiding his hair, smugly grinning) and Victor retaliating with pictures of Makkachin laying against his head, giving the appearance of copper curled hair. Yuuri just laughed to himself and kept himself logged out of his own accounts. He still wasn’t ready to face his fans and the news yet.

  
\------

 

That's how the months go by.

 

Yurio’s texts seem to be the dam breaking for the rest of the skaters, who regularly flood his phone every few days with jokes, advice, questions, and concerns for his absence from Russia. Phichit seems to overwhelmingly approve of Yuuri getting back in contact with the world, and it isn't long before Yuuri has the strength to log back into his social media.

 

Surprisingly (for him) his fans are entirely supportive of his transition back to Detroit, and because no reporters got wind of the reason behind his transfer, all the tabloids are surprisingly tame. There’s a wiff of nasty comments and underlying rumors, there always are, but not nearly to the extent Yuuri had been fearing. After that it's smooth sailing.

 

Yurio texts Yuuri most days, despite the 8 hour time difference. Yuuri doesn't often get the chance to start the conversation because by the time he's awake the day is half over in St. Petersburg, but the dependability of Yurio’s messages is comforting in a way Yuuri hadn't anticipated. A little piece of a place that had become another home to him.

  


_Yura [08:17am]: victor face planted on the ice today, i want to send him a fruit basket that says get better. thoughts?_

 

_Yuuri [08:20am]: I think it would sting more if you added an old age jab. They are your favorite after all_

 

_Yura [08:34am]: i don’t say this often but you are one hardcore asshole sometimes_

 

[Image Received]

 

Yuuri snorts his coffee at the picture of a card on a fruit basket that says ‘Get Better!’ in cheery print and then beneath handwritten by Yurio ‘at skating because you suck old man’.

  
\------

 

Four months after he leaves Russia, Yuuri finally starts to notice a change for himself. Others were aware of how he had changed from an external perspective, but Yuuri can finally feel it within himself.

 

One night he and Phichit are tangled up on the couch watching some weird reality TV show that neither of them fully understand with their language differences. It doesn't matter though because they're both mostly just caught up watching stupid videos on Phichit’s phone, Yuuri leaning over the younger skater’s shoulder for a better view.

 

He's halfway through laughing when Phichit suddenly goes still and quiet, so Yuuri pauses and gently shakes his shoulder.

 

“Phichit?”

 

The Thai skater doesn't respond, just makes a soft noise in his throats before he turns and places a hand gently on Yuuri’s cheek. It's not an uncommon touch between them, so Yuuri just gives Phichit a puzzled look, waiting for an explanation.

 

Phichit leans forward and kisses him softly.

 

Yuuri’s world slides to a stop and his eyes go wide, hand still perched on Phichit’s shoulder. It doesn't last long, and it's rather chaste. But it blows through Yuuri like a fierce wind, leaving him shaking and shy as he turns his head away and lifts his hand from Phichit to cover his mouth.

 

“P-Phichit?” He squeaks, not daring to look over.

 

“Yuuri, I know you were in love with Victor for a long time. But you used to be here, with me, and we were so good together! I know we kept it casual but...could you just think about it?” Phichit sounds more confident than Yuuri knows he must be feeling. He finally turns, dark eyes meeting as Phichit bites his lip softly.

 

“I...I will.”

  
\------

 

Surprisingly the days don't turn awkward. Phichit knows better than to give him too much space to be alone with his thoughts or to poke at his anxiety by pressing the issue, so they go about their days as normal. But it never really leaves Yuuri’s mind.

 

Is he ready for this? Admittedly he's nervous. Victor had been his first real love and it had ended rather disastrously. Phichit had a point though - they had definitely had something before Yuuri’s first Grand Prix and subsequent self-exile. It had never blossomed, though. Yuuri was far too self-conscious and mentally unprepared for that back then. Especially because he and Phichit had met when Yuuri was 18 and Phichit only a year younger. They'd known each other for a long time, so Yuuri had never felt the tension, idol-worship, or inadequacy that had been involved with loving Victor. But was he ready to really say goodbye to Victor that way? It was the last seed of hope being rooted from the ground.

 

So Yuuri finally brings it up after dinner.

 

“I...I'd like to try being with you!” Of course Yuuri is still Yuuri, and he spits it out nervously without any prior context. Phichit grins and drops the fork he was about to put in his mouth to lean his forearms across the table.

 

“Okay!”

  
\------

 

Phichit, despite being younger, is more experienced. And he _knows_ Yuuri. Both the shy, reticent Yuuri and the new confident one. Even if Yuuri will always be shy to some degree, it's just who he is.

 

When they're laying in bed, exhausted, Phichit gently acclimates Yuuri to being touched even in the most innocent of ways. He runs his hands over Yuuri’s cheeks and neck, letting their foreheads touch, sharing giggles as they give each other butterfly kisses. Tracing shapes across each other's chests and hips. And when Yuuri finally settles, Phichit leans in and kisses him slowly.

 

Yuuri has only ever been kissed by Victor, but he learns quickly through imitation. He doesn't initiate kisses very frequently - that's mostly Phichit, who can't resist Yuuri’s blushing face - but when he does it lights up Phichit’s face every time.

 

Being with Phichit is easy. It’s light and fun and low-stakes in a way that whatever Yuuri had had with Victor had never been, could never have been even if Victor had reciprocated his feelings. Now, Yuuri is experiencing the kind of things that most might attribute to relationships in college or even high school. It’s puppy love, best friends with a bonus, shiny and bright and happy but not deep enough to leave scars. Phichit never pushes for more, never asks Yuuri to love him in a different way, and the fact that they both care for each other is more important than what they call themselves. _Boyfriends_ sounds just fine.

 

Kissing Phichit is easy too. At some point Yuuri wonders if the bubbly Thai skater is bound and determined to give him so many kisses in hopes of drowning out the memory of his first. It doesn’t quite work, nothing could ever erase that shock, that unbearable and very public moment of heartache, but after the hundredth flirty peck from Phichit Yuuri doesn’t shy away anymore. Kissing isn’t such a scary thing after all.

 

Their relationship comes out when they're both ready a month later. Phichit posts a picture that has already been his background for a while.

 

It’s a picture of Yuuri blushing beneath the sudden appearance of the camera when Phichit had already been kissing his cheek, one eye peeking at the camera with the slyest expression Yuuri has ever seen on Phichit.

 

phichit+chu

[Image]

I may not have gotten the gold medal, but I got a _gold medalist!_ **#taken #bestboyfriends #relationshipgoals**

 

Needless to say, the media explodes. Within moments it has been circulated around the web, and within hours Yuuri’s own phone is blowing up with messages from his friends. Most of them are exuberant, filled with exclamation points, heart emojis, and congratulations. Yuuri smiles through his blushing cheeks as he reads and replies to them, but he can’t help the odd tickle of something _off_ at Yurio’s text. Just a simple “Congratulations.” with proper punctuation and capitalization, for once.

 

He replies with gratitude, tries to make a joke about it, but Yurio doesn't respond. Yuuri just tells himself it's because it's late in St. Petersburg.

  
\------

 

The new competitive season come around swiftly in between Yuuri’s and Phichit’s growing relationship. Their training over the summer is sprinkled with dates, and Yuuri slowly opens his eyes to the world of intimacy with Phichit at his side. It's still embarrassing for Yuuri, whose reserved nature takes control off the ice, but over time even that relaxes until he and Phichit laugh their way through sex comfortably.

 

It's everything Yuuri has ever needed. He's finally blossoming, after so much work that had been put in motion when he met Victor. Even if neither skater wants to take it much farther (a conversation that had started with Yuuri in tears and ended in the same tears, but prompted instead by relief) they both care for each other deeply.

 

Mila is the one to text him about Otabek.

 

It's a picture of Otabek and Yurio leaning against the elder’s motorcycle, the blond reluctantly smiling and Otabek’s small one following along. Her included text sends Yuuri’s head spinning.

 

_Mila [10:34am]: Otababe finally asked him out!_

 

Then she spams the heart-eyes emoji.

 

Yuuri doesn't know why he frowns, why his heart twinges enough to bring his hand up to his sternum. Is it because Yurio hadn't told him first? Yuuri had firmly believed they'd made leaps in their friendship, after Victor’s actions at the banquet. Did he not trust Yuuri with that kind of information?

 

It hurts enough that he sets his phone back down on the rink wall and goes back to skating. He flubs his jumps and refuses to think about why.

 

That night he can't sleep, the time edging towards midnight when he finally gives in.

 

_Yuuri [11:58pm]: Yura why didn't you tell me you were dating Otabek? Did you think I would be mad?_

 

It feels like the stupidest thing he's ever typed and he quickly shoves the phone face down on the bed after he sends it, already regretful. It does nothing to stop him from snatching it back up when it buzzes with a reply though. Yuuri had forgotten it was almost 8am where Yurio was, and with competitions approaching he was likely up earlier.

 

_Yura [12:02am]: as if, you never get mad idiot_

 

Yuuri stares at his keyboard, unsure, not knowing what to say until another text comes through.

 

_Yura [12:04am]: just didn't expect it, didn't know how to tell you. it's not a big deal_

 

Yuuri smiles wistfully and his reply feels a lot more solid as he types it.

 

_Yuuri [12:04am]: It is a big deal! Whatever makes you happy is something I want to know about_

 

_Yura [12:06am]: shut the fuck up katsudork. Don't be so damn cheesy!_

 

Yuuri giggles at the new nickname, but the alert of his phone stays his fingers.

 

_Yura [12:06am]: thanks though_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never fear, dear readers! Yuuri/Yurio is and will always be the main pairing of this story. However, Lulu and I both want this story to be as realistic and human as possible as we've both mentioned multiple times. Neither of us thought Yuuri could seamlessly jump from loving Victor in an unrequited fashion to engaging with Yurio on a romantic level, he needed time to heal and learn about real love and romance and what it's like to be taken care of (Phichit being the perfect candidate!). Similarly Yurio is too young and brash to care for Yuuri's anxieties, and he needs to grow up a little and learn about relationships. Therefore, Otabek! Neither pairing will be crazily detailed, sex scenes will be smoothed over into vagueness, etc. We hope you'll appreciate the human element and stick with us! 
> 
> Also a cute little addition to the chapter title this time: plumeria not only symbolizes new beginnings and positivity in Hawai'i, but also designates someone's relationship status. A flower over the left ear means taken! So it was a great chapter title/flower for this chapter.


	4. Iris -- Your Friendship Means So Much to Me; Hope; Valour

As if triggered by Yuuri’s sudden departure, weeks later Yurio’s legs begin to ache. It’s bad enough that he can scarcely skate, spending his nights spasming in bed with his teeth clenched together, heating pads wrapped in towels around his legs. It seems even lonelier without Yuuri to text and talk to, but he refuses to give in early. For some reason he doesn’t want to be the first to break, and Yurio doesn’t want to examine that too closely. Instead he suffers through gritted teeth, massaging his calves in between practice sessions and longing for the onsen in Hasetsu. 

 

After one particularly rough practice where he can’t even land a single toe loop because of the pain in his legs, Yurio returns home after break furious and defeated. He doesn’t know why he reaches for his phone, but it’s the first text he sends Yuuri since the older skater boarded a plane for Detroit. 

 

At first he’s afraid of the answer, and shoves his phone beneath his pillow with a scowl. What does he care if Yuuri was transitioning well? It wasn’t  _ his  _ problem. He’s just worried that Yuuri wouldn’t be in top competitive form to go against Yurio in the Fall Internationals! Yet even as he tries to convince himself of his own apathy, the buzz of his phone still has his hand darting beneath his pillow to retrieve it. 

 

The aches hurts a little less, being able to joke and laugh with Yuuri at Victor’s expense before the Japanese skater heads off for practice. Maybe it’s because it was a good distraction from the pain in his limbs. 

 

\------

 

Yurio turns 18 at the start of March. 

 

He awakes to find his grandfather smiling warmly down at him from a tray of breakfast food (and some pirozhki, though only two for now at such an early hour). His phone is bombarded all throughout the day from friends, skaters, and fans, all wishing him a happy birthday in one way or another. Yurio strictly does not watch the time, instead spending the day with his grandfather who he doesn’t spend nearly enough time with sometimes, with the length of seasons so unpredictable. 

 

He’s expecting a text, so he nearly fumbles his phone when it starts buzzing and the screen is overtaken by the incoming call screen. And then he really  _ does _ fumble it when he sees “Katsudon” on the caller ID. Nonetheless even with shaking fingers he manages to swipe the green button the right way, lifting it to his ear.

 

“W-What the fuck do you want, katsudon?” Ah, good. His voice isn’t nearly as weak as he’d been expecting. Just enough spite and bitterness to pass as normal. Yuuri, of course, being the ridiculous ray of sunshine he is, doesn’t even hear the intonations. 

 

“Yura!  с днем рождения!” Yuuri crows happily from the other side, and Yurio can’t help the heat of his cheeks as he covers his eyes with his free hand. 

 

“Your pronunciation is shit,” he mutters half-heartedly, a wobbly smile forming on his lips. Yuuri’s laughter spills contagiously across the phone, and the presence of the device is comforting as he lets himself smile a bit more freely. 

 

“But I practiced with Mila forever!” Yuuri whines through the phone, and Yurio flops sideways on his bed as he listens to the poutings of the other skater mumble their way nonsensically through the speaker. 

 

“Clearly that was your first mistake,” Yurio can’t help but poke fun at the pouting man, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He can only imagine how much needling Mila had given Yuuri over such a request, but his chest still feels uncomfortably warm and tight. Had he really practiced just to wish Yurio happy birthday? Yurio doubted it. 

 

“I left my present with your grandfather! Did you get it yet?” 

 

Yurio is distracted by the eager voice, and jolts as he draws himself back to the present. Speaking of present...Yuuri had gotten him a gift?

 

“Hah?!”

 

It takes only a few seconds of cajoling from Yuuri to go track down his grandfather and mention the gift. The older man’s eyes light up in recognition and he brings Yurio to his closet. Hearing Yuuri giggling and shifting impatiently on the other line he thumbs the speaker button. 

 

“Alright I'm opening it now, don't say anything stupid you're on speaker,” he mutters, not daring to insult him too much with his grandfather there. Nikolai was very appreciative of how generous and welcoming the Katsuki family had been when Yurio had thrust himself upon them unannounced after all. 

 

“Open it!” Yuuri crows from the speaker where the phone is set on the bed. Yurio tears into the wrapping paper furiously (unlike Yuuri  _ he  _ knows how to open a present) his grandfather watching with a small smile. 

 

It's a thin, large picture frame. Inside is a collage of photographs from various skaters, and Yurio can't help the clog in his throat as his fingers skim over each one; Yurio and Victor before they went to Hasetsu, Yurio, Mila, and Georgi in a rare shot with both of them laughing. Then Yurio and Yuuko, a cute pink postcard between the two groups of photos that has Hasetsu Castle on it, and Yurio finally sees that Yuuri had created a roadmap of pictures from Yurio’s life. 

 

It continues, his eyes watering with each scrapbook-style adventure. There's a picture of Yurio and his cat, supplied by Nikolai, and scrapbook cat paws and ears framing the photo. There's a picture of himself, Yakov, and Lilia the moment they'd hoisted him up when he beat Victor’s record. There are a few of his skating routines, little ice skate stickers on the background between photos. Even a gold medal sticker. Pictures of Yurio and Otabek, even one of baby Yurio with Nikolai. And at the very bottom, a selfie taken by Yuuri with Yurio, on the date that he couldn't smile for a picture. He hadn't realized it was an underhanded attempt to get a picture of the two smiling, but it's suddenly infinitely precious. 

 

“Yuri? Yura do you like it?” Yuuri’s voice is anxious on the speaker, and Yurio clears his wet throat unsteadily. 

 

“You're a sappy asshole,” he chokes, staring down at the pictures of his life from lonely to prosperous. Yuuri’s laugh is quiet, understanding even from miles away how Yurio must be feeling. Nikolai’s own eyes were a little wet - Yurio hadn't made very many friends as a child beneath his care, but Yuuri had just made very plain through pictures how far Yurio had come in all aspects. 

 

“There's another!” Yuuri assures almost awkwardly, and Yurio lets himself wish that the other skater was  _ here _ for this. At least he could see the proper reaction instead of Yurio’s instinctive denials. 

 

Nikolai pulls a large bag from the back of the closet, a big bow at the top. Yurio gently sets the picture frame aside and quickly unwraps it. His voice gurgles happily in his throat as he picks it up and holds it to his body. 

 

It's a giant tiger plush, the kind found at carnivals. It's nearly the same size as Yurio, even. 

 

“I love it,” he manages to mumble through the fake fur pressed happily against his face. 

 

Nikolai and Yuuri both laugh. 

 

\------

 

Yurio finally understands what's happening when Otabek comes to visit. He's not there for Yurio exactly because he needs to talk to Yakov about his summer training options with his own coach, but Yurio doesn't let that dissuade him from stealing the rest of Otabek’s time there. 

 

“You're growing,” Otabek says simply while listening to Yurio grumble and bitch as he stretches his calves and inner thighs uselessly. It's not an ache he can stretch away. Still, he's stubborn and will keep trying. 

 

At least until what Otabek says registers in his head and he whips his head up to stare stupidly at the quiet boy. 

 

“What?!” 

 

It takes a few minutes of explanation and anecdotes from Otabek’s own growth periods, but by the time it's over Yurio is staring agog at his legs. He's going to  _ grow?  _ Sure he'd grown in the past but it had miraculously never been painful with how active he was and how often he stretched. 

 

“I can't even land a fucking toe loop,” he mutters helplessly, feeling like his own body is betraying him. Otabek places a heavy, warm hand on his shoulder, and Yurio is surprised by how comforting it is. 

 

“Maybe I can help?” 

 

And that's how it starts. For the month that Yakov and Otabek’s coach work together, Otabek helps Yurio figure out the new lengths of his limbs and how they transfer to jumps and flips. It's not an easy process. Yurio is terrified of losing his grip on the podium because of something he can't control, which makes him even more volatile than normal. However it also pushes him into longer hours of practice, which helps in the long run. 

 

Otabek stays with him in the rink no matter how long Yurio lingers, and the blond isn't sure how to deal with that kind of loyalty. It reminds him of Yuuri, and yet the two men are so wildly different as to make the comparison strange. When he finally lands a triple toe loop smoothly, his cheers are matched by Otabek’s, and the two senselessly meet in a hug of triumph. They both freeze at the same time, pulling away awkwardly as Yurio lets his skates carry him back away from the warmth of his fellow skater. They catch eyes nervously, Otabek giving a little smile. 

 

They don't talk about it. Yurio goes back to practicing them, figuring out the new angles and speeds required of his longer legs, trying to keep his mind off it. But hugs become a lot more common after that. 

 

\------

 

Everything changes when he opens his phone to find a picture of Phichit and Yuuri, announcing that they're dating. He sits there staring at it for so long that the screen goes dim a few times, limp hands barely managing to tap the screen to keep staring. 

 

It's not unexpected. It's  _ not.  _ Phichit and Yuuri had always been ridiculously close, even Yurio knew that. He's happy for Yuuri, he tells himself. And if he's staring more at the blush on Yuuri's cheeks, the small smile and tiny glimpse of teeth biting the full flesh of his bottom lip instead of Phichit...it's because Yuuri is his friend. Friend? God he doesn't even know what to call him some days. But being with Phichit means Yuuri is getting over Victor, and Yurio wants that more than anything. He just wants Yuuri to be happy, and the sappy thought makes him scowl and scroll quickly away from the picture. 

 

He knows he should say something, feels compelled to make some kind of comment on this turn of events, and he spends entirely too long composing a text that still feels wholly dissatisfying despite the amount of time invested in the choice of a singular word.

 

_ Yuri [10:58 pm]: Congratulations. _

 

It feels weak, and far too formal for the friendship they’d built, but Yurio can’t think of anything else to say.

 

He spends the next few days furiously skating, wrangling his growing body under control until the ache goes away in his chest.  _ Growing pains,  _ he tells himself bitterly. 

 

\------

 

Mila is the first to spot it, her eyes sharp as a hawk’s when it came to Yurio’s interactions with pretty much anyone. He’s like a brother to her; an angry, adorable, socially stunted little brother maybe, but a brother nonetheless. In the years they’ve been skating together she has cultivated a rather protective if not horrendously meddlesome set of feelings for her little Yurochka.

 

“я думаю, что он вы нравитесь.” She says it offhandedly, almost disinterestedly, while she and Yurio are leaning against the boards of the rink one afternoon. Otabek has the full run of the ice, Yakov and his own coach having told the rest to clear off for a breather while the Kazakh works through a particularly difficult jump series for his new program.

 

The redhead hides a ghost of a smirk as Yurio’s eyes flick instinctively to Otabek at her words before he looks up at her with a disgruntled frown as the words actually register. 

 

“Wha--what are you talking about you miserable old hag?” he bites out, but she only smiles and shrugs, casual as you please. 

 

“Otabek. I could be wrong, but sometimes, I dunno... just that way he looks at you.” It isn’t a lie, no matter how teasingly she words the acknowledgment. She’d noticed Otabek’s attention to Yurio right off the bat, but what Mila is really interested in now is the way that Yurio has been looking at Otabek in the same way. The way he tended to gripe less and smile more when he worked with the older boy in all their long practice sessions.

 

She knows better than to try and point that out so soon, knows for a cold hard fact that if she lets slip any innuendo of Yurio making googly eyes at  _ anyone _ much less his first real friend that the 18-year-old will sputter, clam up, and never talk to said person again. Or her, most likely. Half out of embarrassment and half just to spite her.

 

As it is, she wiggles her fingers teasingly and sashays away on some pretext of going to pester Georgi about  _ his  _ new girlfriend, and leaves Yuuri to stew. He doesn’t manage more than a halfhearted hiss before she’s gone, clacking away on her skate guards to where Georgi is engrossed in his phone. Yurio doesn’t have much ammunition to do more than squint passive aggressively in her direction before his eyes drift back to the ice. It’s too much of a surprise, like being doused in freezing water and then thrown in a hot spring. He’s not even sure what to think, much less what type of creative insult to throw her way for making assumptions. 

 

Otabek cuts across his vision in the midst of a powerful triple-triple combo, and the thought is momentarily discarded. 

 

\------

 

Mila doesn’t stop there. Oh no. First taste of blood, the opportunity to secure happiness and romance for someone as simultaneously recalcitrant and deserving as Yurio? She’s only just beginning. 

 

“I think he likes you…” She muses whimsically the next day. Yakov has singled out Yurio for solo one-on-one ice time, and she hunts down (though she prefers the term “happens upon”) the definitely-not-short knight with perfect hair. She has a type, alright? 

 

Otabek is working through a few stretches on his own while they all wait for Yurio’s time to be over. He’s facing away from her when she says it, nose to his knees and gripping the balls of his feet, and the only sign he gives in that instant of hearing her speak is a short pause in his next slow exhalation. 

 

She plops companionably down on the bench next to his position on the floor and waits him out. Otabek returns to a sitting position, finally fixing Mila with a steady stare as he repositions his legs for a butterfly stretch. 

 

“Is that what you think?” he asks placidly, noting the twinkle in her eye. At least he doesn’t pretend to not know who or what she’s talking about. 

 

“And what do you expect me to do about that?” He likes Mila well enough, but even straightforward Otabek hadn’t anticipated such a direct attack of interference from her. Not that he’d planned on being so obvious, but Yurio could be obtuse when the moment called for it, and perhaps he was a little too invested in the fiery blond already. 

 

Had he noticed Yurio? Of course he had. He had been a close friend ever since Barcelona, and Otabek has respected and admired Yurio since they were children. If in the last few weeks he’d begun to let his gaze linger a little longer or had enjoyed the extra time spent together, or even reveled in the close proximity more than he might have with other friends (which he totally had), that was his own business and not Mila’s. He’s honest, that’s true, but he’s also a rather private person, and even if she means well, Otabek is not willing to spill his guts to someone he doesn’t know on such a personal level.

 

“Do?” She gasps, propping herself up on elbows with a masterfully shocked expression. 

 

“Otabek, darling, no! My Yurochka is but a small and impressionable boy!” Otabek can’t hold back a snort at that - even without the summer’s growth spurt, Yurio could probably never have been described as  _ impressionable _ . Yurio existed purely to prove everybody wrong, like his life force was invested in spite and triumph. 

 

“I just wanted to be sure that you weren’t planning on  _ toying _ with his delicate emotions.” This time there’s a glint to her beautiful eyes, leaning across her knees to stare down at Otabek where he’s sitting on the floor. She strikes him as a beautiful, predatory bird. Claws concealed for now, but sharp beak flashing between captivating eyes. It’s a threat if he’s ever heard one, no matter how subtly and pleasantly she manages to word it for his ears. That is exactly what she wants, convinced as she is that if she left any of it up to Yurio, her dearest angry-person would have his first date approximately never. It didn’t mean she couldn’t assure Otabek was the right person for that first date, though. 

 

Otabek’s slowly shaken head seems to satisfy her primordial desires, though. She grins like a shark and bounces off, as if she hadn’t just threatened Otabek all the way down to his bones in one fell swoop. Otabek tries to remind himself to breathe. 

 

\------

 

Yurio practically prowls out of the locker rooms after practice. It’s a week after Mila’s insidious comments had casually planted seeds that now were a rampaging bramble of thorns in his mind. It wasn’t all her fault, but it felt a good place to start assigning blame. After a few days involving particularly grueling training sessions from Yakov, with tendons in his knees that refused to grow at the same rate to his bones, Victor’s sorry ass moaning over Yuuri and Phichit’s new relationship, and his sullen cat punishing him for accidentally stepping on her tail, the already tremulous grasp on his sanity (and his temper) is at the very end of the last frayed rope. 

 

_ With all that shit, _ Yurio thinks,  _ I don’t need to be worrying about Otabek’s feelings, if they even exist outside of her stupid fantasy world. _ But he does anyway. The possibilities and what ifs wind their way into his brain and he pretends that it’s those that needle him more than images of another couple across the Atlantic that somehow just don’t sit right behind his sternum. Victor had no god forsaken right to be sullen about Yuuri being happy with someone else, and Yurio didn’t either. He  _ didn’t!  _

 

“Yuri.” Otabek reaches out to stop Yurio as the blond stalks past in a fit of temper. His heavy hand on Yurio’s shoulder has, in the past, been enough to at least put a momentary pause to the Russian’s wrath, but this time Yurio jerks away immediately. Instead of a comforting presence it’s a haunting reminder of every insinuation that had fallen from Mila’s lips.

 

_ Damn that hag!  _ Yurio’s insides scream, because just in that moment he had been thinking of a scene where he and Otabek had abandoned the rest of these bastards and driven off on the back of his motorcycle and it was, of course, Mila’s fault that now such a scene came with the flickering of feelings that implied something more than friendship for the other man. They don’t need to change. They  _ don’t.  _ Otabek’s friendship means more to Yurio than almost anything, and now he was starting to think about risking that? Because of Mila’s stupid infatuation with hooking him up with somebody?

 

Otabek doesn’t flinch from the hostile glare that he receives from Yurio, but he does slowly pull his hand back. He’s dealt with his friend’s moods before, or at least he thinks he has, and so he tries to step into the relaxed familiarity that they’re used to. Follow the same well-worn route to calming Yurio down that he remembers.

 

“Yuri, tell me what has you so wound up.” The order is gentle, said as he sidesteps in front of Yurio. Physically, the move doesn’t carry the same impact it used to (not now that Yurio’s just surpassed him in height) but the switch is new enough that it still stops Yurio in his tracks. Like he still hasn’t figured out that he could move Otabek easily, like Otabek standing in front of him still instinctively reminds him to stop. To slow down.

 

“You’ve been been biting heads off all day. You made Georgi cry -”

 

“So what if I did?! He needs a damn stiffer spine, it’s not my problem that he’s a dramatic fuck! And what the fuck do you care?! Stop being such a soft fuckin-”

 

“YURI!” There’s a growl in Otabek’s voice, a dark cast that fills in the planes of a face and cuts through the angry vitriol that has literally been spewing out of Yuri since they had arrived at the training ring that morning. Yurio has a temper. Yurio is aggressive. These are things Otabek knows about Yurio, willingly accepts as part of Yurio’s personality, but the younger man had been toeing a line that Otabek refused to let him cross. He cared about Yurio. He cared about Yurio a _ lot _ , and right now that meant being harsh.

 

“Shut your mouth and listen to me!” Yurio is stunned into silence, only left to sneer defensively as Otabek stares him down. 

 

“These are your friends, Yuri.  _ I _ am your friend. And I know you’ve had a lot on your mind recently, a lot to upset you, but you have no right to treat the people who love you like shit.”

 

“I hav-” Yurio starts, an indignant flush creeping up his neck.

 

“You have! You’ve been a real shitheel and because for some reason your coach and your rink mates love you -- yes Yuri, they  _ love  _ you -- they consider it enough in order to put up with your shit, but you are seriously pushing it. If you don’t stop and recognise when you’re going too far you’re going to start driving people away!”

 

There’s a beat, one where the sizzle of Yurio’s seething and the rumble of Otabek’s voice hangs between them like a storm. The emotion that radiates from both is palpable, dangerous even, with the pulsing potential for implosion. Otabek pulls back, has to pull back because at least he’s said what he had to say, and this matters. In fact this matters too much to really push his friend any further.  _ Let him sit with that, let him choose _ , he thinks, and with a hard, steady look into those seafoam soldier’s eyes he pulls back, leaves Yurio standing alone, stunned into silence.

 

\------

 

Yurio skips out on practice the next day; Yakov will be furious but that’s never stopped him before. He roams, no distinguishable destination in mind other that the overwhelming urge to be somewhere other than where he stands at any particular moment. The old streets of St. Petersburg tend to wind, and that perfectly suits the young man’s distracted frame of mind. He lets his feet carry him over the miles wheresoever they pleased. Yurio knew the city like the back of his hand, and he would always know how to find his way back to the rink. 

 

There are entirely too many things to think about, too many things Yurio wants to shrug off or sneer at because they don’t settle easy on his broadening shoulders. Yurio had never been a carefree boy, he’d rarely been at ease. There had always been something to fight: skills to master, competitors to slay, hardships to overcome, and like Otabek had said in Barcelona, Yuri had been a soldier through it all. Why couldn’t things be so black and white now? When had everything shifted from absolutes to this confused grey haze that he now had to figure out how to navigate on his own?

 

But he isn’t on his own, hasn’t been for a while and maybe adjusting to that simple fact is what has been giving him so much trouble. 

 

There’s his Grandpa.

 

There’s Yakov, the grumpy old bastard.

 

There’s Mila and Georgi.

 

There’s Victor, even with as far as he’s fallen in Yurio’s esteem lately.

 

There’s Otabek.

 

There’s Yuuri.

 

Faces flash into Yurio’s mind as his sneakers unwittingly pad a familiar route across a bridge. The faces of the people who have taught him and cared for him _ ,  _ the people who, despite all the protestations Yurio might give, really  _ mattered _ . People he hadn’t given due respect to, who may question how much really cared and appreciated them.  _ Needed  _ them. Because admitting he needed them was easier than admitted he loved them, sometimes. 

 

He sinks down onto stone steps before his surroundings register in his brain and he looks up to see the reflection of the white pagoda drifting in the reflection of the swan pond. 

 

“Fucking swans,” he mutters without any real malice, but several pairs paddle in the water below and they look so serene that he can’t help the tiny bit of wistful resentment he feels. A sigh escapes him, and the miles he’s walked seem to catch up all at once in the hollows of his aching bones. The young man gives in, leaning his back against one of the pristine white columns and closing his eyes.

 

Yurio breathes. For a while does nothing else but listen to his own breath and the blessed quiet that fills this place. The thoughts that had seconds ago been running wildly, screaming loudly for his attention seem to settle into quiet murmurs that he can actually handle. Maybe minutes pass, maybe hours, but they sift and sort themselves in his mind until he finally can parse them with some sort of understanding.

 

He’d undoubtedly been a shitheel, as Otabek had put it, about too many things; about everything really, and this time meeting problems with a sneer and a shout had only left him and the people he cared about aggravated. Yurio had resorted to anger and violence for most of his life because it was the only way adults would truly pay attention to him, give him the respect he so desperately desired. Fighting for his place had become so ingrained in Yurio that he’d simply adapted it into his personality. It was an offense and a defense, a way of making people listen to him despite his age and inexperience, but also a way to keep himself from getting to emotionally attached. So he couldn’t get hurt. He’d seen too many people fall apart because of attachment, and as a child he’d vowed never to let himself do it. So that he’d have an edge. An advantage. But if Yuuri had grown so much stronger because of love (no matter how misguided), and Victor had found his new inspiration in companionship and friendship...had he really been wrong for so long? But Yurio didn’t know what to replace that kind of anger with, it had festered for so long, roots digging so deep into himself that he couldn’t imagine trying to rip them out. 

 

But still, Yurio had to admit that maybe there was something he could do about his attitude if not his circumstances. At least he could  _ try.  _ For the sakes of those who had stayed with him and supported him despite the cruelty of his words and actions over the years.

 

His mind forms half thought-out apologies for his rinkmates and his coach, but temptingly he wonders if maybe they could slide back into their usual routine and just forget the tension of the past few days. So that nothing would have to change, so that he wouldn’t have to be honest with himself. He’d have to talk to Otabek, that was for sure, though what he wanted to say to the friend that had had the balls to knock some sense into him all seemed to depend on whether or not he would put any worth in what Mila had said.

 

Yurio liked Otabek, he could admit that much. He respected Otabek both as a competitor and as a man, and he valued their friendship. Yurio had certainly never thought he’d have a friend, a real one with no messy past involved. Someone who took him at face value and still wanted to form that kind of connection. Yurio also appreciated the help he’d been given and he wondered…he wondered if, if he was to  _ be _ with anyone, wouldn’t he want it to be someone like Otabek? Someone quiet and strong and kind...antithesis to his own aggressive personality. A grounding rock. 

 

Yurio’s phone chimes from his pocket. Damn it he’d meant to turn it on silent...

 

_ Yuuri [03:47pm]: Yura, is everything okay? I haven’t heard from you in a little while. Don’t stress out too much in training! Eat well! Text me when you can, I’m a little worried. _

 

Mostly Yurio hadn’t wanted to think about Yuuri, but the words on the screen pull the smile out of his chest and onto his lips.  _ Damn, katsudork has a sixth sense.  _ But Yurio doesn’t respond immediately, instead flicking over to Instagram to skim through what is now a long series of pictures of a smiling Yuuri with Phichit: over froyo, at a park, on top of a miniature train? And Yuuri is smiling in a way that had happened too rarely when he’d been in St Petersburg.

 

During that period, during the “Victor” period, Yurio had put so much thought and time into guarding Yuuri, into looking out for him. Because he  _ knew _ Victor, knew that he would only shatter the delicate man who would have given him the world if only it would fit in his hands. It feels strange now to see someone else filling that void, to see someone else taking care of him. But if Yuuri’s happy? If Yuuri is smiling like that? That’s something Yurio thinks he can live with. 

 

\------

 

Otabek finds him as Yurio is on his way out of the park, and they stand for a long minute, facing each other on the bridge. 

 

“You were right. I’ve been a piece of shit.” Yurio says without much preamble. 

 

“Yeah. You have been.” A glimmer of a smile crosses Otabek’s face but he waits, carefully, patiently. Waits for Yurio to make the connections, to word things and even worse,  _ say _ them. 

 

“Yeah. Sorry about that.” 

 

They walk together for a time, neither feeling the need to fill the silence. It’s late by the time they get to Yurio’s apartment even though the late spring sky is still bright. Yurio makes to unlock the door, mind stating to formulate a plan that involved finding some food and automatically assumes Otabek would join him.

 

Except Otabek hesitates at the threshold, and reaches for Yurio’s elbow to pull him back outside, and the blond responds to the pressure. Yurio glances at the hand that held him back before shifting his gaze to his friend.

 

“What, would you rather go out instead?” he asks, mind still on food acquisition. Otabek grins at that, wide and with just a trace of irony in his eyes.

 

“Mila talked to me the other day.” It was a rather matter of fact statement, and had nothing to do with food, which made Yurio frown stupidly. But as Otabek had seen what looked like a rather similar conversation pass between Mila and Yurio, he could guess at the full story, and thought that Yurio probably could too. When the realization finally clicks, Yurio’s eyes dart away, confirming Otabek’s suspicions. 

 

“...Did she really? Me too. What’d she say to you?” Yurio speaks carefully, adjusting his position in the open door to lean against the frame. Casual. Totally casual. 

 

“Well she definitely told me not to toy with your emotions.”

 

“Did she.” 

 

“Yeah, she did. Actually, if I remember right, she said ‘delicate emotions’.”

 

“Tch!”

 

“Hmm.” He made a calm, understanding noise, knowing how that little addition would pick at Yurio and finding it more than a little endearing. 

 

“And because I respect her, and you, I won’t. You mean a lot to me Yuri, your friendship means a lot, but are you gonna date me or not?”

 

Yurio stares at him like Otabek just slapped him across the face, taken aback by the bold statement. Even Otabek seems to take a mental step back, a dusky blush across his cheeks as he clears his throat in a sudden appearance of nerves.

 

“I just...want to be upfront with you, Yuri. I like you a lot, and I’d really like to see if we can be more than friends.”

 

Yurio is still staring in silence, and it takes him a while to realize that maybe he should stop imitating a fucking fish and actually answer the poor man. Except...he’s not really sure what to say. But he wanted to start being honest, right? So Yurio sucks it up, takes a deep breath, and tries not to show how badly his heart is shaking in his chest.

 

“I uh...I’m not good at this romance stuff. I’m an asshole, and I don’t even know my  _ own _ feelings Beka. But...you’re my best friend, and...well, if you’ll be patient and not hate me for my fuck ups, I’d like to try.” It’s probably the shittiest reply to something like that, but the blush on his cheeks is testament to how sincere he is in that moment. And the pulse in his chest as Otabek beams happily, a rare expression on the normally reserved man, seems like a promising start.

 

“So...can we finally get dinner?”

 

\------

 

Yurio texts Yuuri back later that night.

 

_ Yura [11:50pm]: yeah yuuri, things are fine. training has been a bitch lately. picked a few fights, won em all but you should see the other guys, talk to you soon _

 

Yuri types and deletes Otabek’s name into a second text (twice). He deletes it (twice) and puts his phone away. He can’t quite put into words the reason he doesn’t share this part of the story with Yuuri. He doesn’t dwell on the feeling that whenever he has the urge to text Yuuri about it, to share that piece of his life, it somehow feels like he is reaching one arm out to slam a long-open door closed. One he’s not sure he wants to close. Not yet.

  
  


\------

 

Fall Internationals isn't anything new for Yurio. It's a stepping stone to the bigger competitions, and while he's aware of his own arrogance these days, he's still not very intimidated. It's refreshing to be back in crunch mode, picking up the pace after months of routine training and conditioning. The static noise of the crowd during setup is intoxicating, like buzzing bees beneath his skin. It's the first time he’ll see Otabek after the man left to return to Kazakhstan. Despite weeks of Skype and texting, it's not the same as being able to see him in person. 

 

Unbidden he can't help but think repeatedly as the date nears that this will be the first time seeing Yuuri again. He's almost jealous of Yuuri and Phichit, who get to see each other daily unlike himself and Otabek. Long distance isn't easy, but they make it work. 

 

When he arrives he abandons Yakov to the check in process as always, wondering why the man always blusters after him as if Yurio hasn't been doing it for years. He finds Otabek first - they had agreed to meet in the lobby ahead of time, and despite being a rather average height the imposing quietude of the man is still easily distinguishable. They meet with smiles and a tight hug. Anything else has to wait, with the excess amount of reporters swarming the halls for competition season. 

 

Despite neither of them being very friendly, they both attract attention from the other skaters, who immediately swarm to greet them enthusiastically. Yurio can't help but frown though, noticing the frustrating absence of one certain skater. 

 

Lugging his bags behind him, Yurio decides there's no use waiting around for the Japanese skater, and clasps Otabek’s hand in a familiar, practiced motion. As if fate is mocking him, a familiar voice lifts to a shout halfway across the lobby. 

 

“YURA!”

 

Yurio spins without even thinking about it, nearly yanking Otabek along with him as his eyes scan for a familiar mop of black hair. He finds it, but Yuuri is already running across the floor, eyes bright and smiling wide. Before Yurio can even contemplate what to do he's dropping Otabek’s hand and pretty much catching an armful of happy Yuuri. Except the new height difference is already apparent, and suddenly Yurio really  _ sees _ how tall he's gotten. With all the other skaters being around every day, it had been such a gradual change that it didn't fully click until he's staring down at Yuuri barely on his tiptoes, arms slung around Yurio’s shoulders. Phichit’s physicality had clearly rubbed off on the normally reserved man. Or maybe he just missed Yurio enough to transcend his own barriers? Yurio feels more comfortable blaming Phichit. 

 

“You've grown!” Yuuri gasps like he's reading his mind, and Yurio scowls in embarrassment as the Japanese skater bounces back and away from the surprise hug. 

 

“Hi Otabek, it's nice to see you,” Yuuri says as he turns and looks at the Kazakh. Yurio can't help but feel like something’s off about his tone, but he can't put his finger on it. Otabek seems to have figured it out though, if the tightness of his smile is anything to go by. Yurio feels like there's an entirely separate conversation going on that he can't parse. Even Yuuri seems somewhat bewildered by his own behavior. 

 

Yurio doesn't focus on it, instead smirking at the shorter man and redirecting the conversation to something he's comfortable with. 

 

“Beat you in the height department just like I'm going to beat you at the Grand Prix,” he smirks, cocking a hip and leaning down, smugly enjoying the cornered look on Yuuri’s face as he uses his newfound height against him. So much easier than Sochi. 

 

Yuuri just smiles, and Yurio is struck by how much he's missed the quiet, kind man. He's about to open his mouth and say something,  _ anything,  _ because he's finally learned that he needs to say those kinds of things while he can when Phichit finally catches up. 

 

The Thai skater grins and slips an arm around Yuuri’s waist, greeting Yurio and Otabek cheerily. It breaks whatever mood had descended upon the three of them, and Yurio steps back and reclaims Otabek’s hand. Phichit coos and squeezes Yuuri like he can't handle the cuteness without doing so. 

 

“Congratulations again! You two look great together,” Phichit smiles, and Otabek smiles back as he thanks him in that familiar, quiet way. Yurio and Yuuri can't stop staring at each other, though. Even as Yuuri’s eyes drop away as Phichit speaks, saying his congratulations somewhere around chest height. Yurio wants to drag him away and make him smile again, ask why he looks so uncomfortable now when he'd been smiling beatifically moments ago. Is it Phichit? Is the Thai skater not treating Yuuri right? 

 

His thoughts dissolve when Otabek gently tugs on his hand, tilting his chin towards the elevators and lifting his eyebrows in silent question. Yurio huffs softly but nods. 

 

“Hey, we’re gonna go put our stuff in our rooms. See you guys later?” 

 

Yuuri’s bewildered smile settles into something wistful, and Yurio is desperate to know what's on his mind. This is too similar to how Yuuri used to act around Victor, and suddenly he's doubting all the progress Yuuri had so clearly been making in Detroit. 

 

“Maybe dinner? Before warm ups and first group tomorrow?” Surprisingly it's Yuuri who asks, though Phichit’s excited inhale pretty much cements  _ his _ opinion. Otabek just smiles and agrees to it, because Yurio is still somewhat lost in his head. As they walk towards the elevators Yuuri waves, and Yurio lifts his hand in response. As the doors for the elevator close he wonders what he's missing. 

 

\------

 

Dinner quickly goes from four to  _ more.  _ Yurio isn't very surprised with Phichit being involved but it still makes him feel disgruntled. Even Yuuri seems at a loss, though that's likely because his boyfriend has been stolen by Leo and Guang-Hong, who Phichit hasn't seen for quite a while. He looks lost sitting nervously at the table when Otabek and Yurio walk in, but with one glance it's easy enough to determine why. 

 

Christophe is a friend of Yuuri without a doubt, but unfortunately with Christophe comes Victor. Victor who is slowly scooting closer to Yuuri despite the two chairs clearly intentionally placed between them. Yurio’s eyes narrow and he abandons Otabek momentarily to hurry over and slide purposefully into the chair next to Yuuri, glaring challengingly at Victor as Otabek follows and sits in the last empty chair. 

 

“Thank you,” Yuuri whispers beneath the drone of playful conversation. Yurio glances over and smiles at him, and Yuuri looks temporarily stunned. Yurio immediately scowls because of it, embarrassment beginning to turn his cheeks pink. 

 

“What, I'm not allowed to smile?” He gripes, angrily opening his menu as the waiter makes slow, dazed rounds around the table, clearly overwhelmed by all the orders and separate tickets. 

 

“No! No I just...it looks good on you. I'm glad Otabek makes you happier,” Yuuri interjects, and when Yurio looks from the corner of his eye, Yuuri is smiling sincerely at him. It's enough to lower his makeshift defense of a menu, but he still huffs a little. 

 

“Of course it looks good on me, I didn't suffer through puberty for nothing,” he grins like a shark, enjoying the flare of red on Yuuri’s face while it lasts. Yuuri jabs him in the ribs and smirks to himself as he purposefully folds his napkin in his lap, using the motion as an excuse for introducing his elbow to Yurio’s side. 

 

“Careful Yura, cockiness detracts from appearance. Wouldn't want you being like JJ, would we?” It's said perfectly primly, Japanese manners with the bite of subtle insult. 

 

Yurio can't help but shudder at the idea of becoming anything like JJ, and Yuuri clearly notices for how he hides a smirk behind his cup of water. Right as Yuuri takes a sip Yurio leans in with a grin. 

 

“Why Yuuri, have you been ogling JJ then?” Yuuri’s small choke around the water is more than enough for Yurio’s petty revenge and he leans back into his chair smirking. 

 

It's only then that he realizes he and Yuuri had blocked out the rest of the world, and immediately feels guilty for how awkward Otabek looks stuck next to someone involved in conversation and  _ Victor.  _ Yurio turns back and intertwines their hands together, letting Otabek pull their joined hands together onto his boyfriend’s lap in apology. It's worth it though, to see Yuuri relaxed and less ostracized by his boyfriend’s airheaded nature. 

 

The dinner goes rather well, despite the assortment of personalities and the underlying fact that they will all be competing against one another. Yurio soaks up time with Otabek, and takes the chance to unwind a little before the short program the next morning. Being with Otabek had toned down a lot of his natural irritation and loudness. Otabek had introduced to Yurio the sanctity of silence, the revelation that Yurio had  _ more _ power and control when he was calm than when he was volatile. It’s easier to smile, to snark and even compliment his fellow skaters with the influence his boyfriend has in his life. 

 

He does catch Yuuri’s stare a few times, but the older skater never says anything and never holds contact when Yurio turns to intercept his gaze. It’s grueling and confusing. With Otabek becoming more than just a friend, Yuuri is one of the only ones left with that kind of title. His irritation mounts higher, but Yurio knows better now, knows it’s just a cover for the concern he’s feeling. Until finally he can’t stand it and reaches out to grab Yuuri’s nearest elbow the next time the Japanese man glances away. 

 

“What’s up with you?” he whispers, trying to keep the irritation from his voice. Because he  _ knows _ it’s not irritation. Unfortunately becoming more in tune with his emotions also forced him into being far more honest with himself. Not something Yurio was in the habit of. 

 

Yuuri, at least, looks startled and cornered by Yurio’s sudden attention. As if he would have let the katsudon get away with it, Yurio thinks to himself with an odd variety of emotions. 

 

“Nothing! You’ve just changed a lot is all,” Yuuri rebukes, leaning slightly away from Yurio in a way that makes his eyes narrow. Yuuri isn’t afraid of him, he hasn’t been afraid of him since Sochi, so why is he leaning away now? Did he not miss Yurio in the months they’d not seen each other? 

 

“That’s not an excuse,” he grumbles below his breath, intentionally leaning closer so that Yuuri can’t avoid him. At first he thinks Yuuri’s going to crumble, maybe make another excuse like he used to. But there’s a glint in Yuuri’s russet eyes and Yurio feels pride and satisfaction well up inside as Yuuri’s spine straightens and he gets back into Yurio’s face.

 

“It’s as much of an excuse as I want it to be,” Yuuri parrots back, a grin flirting with the corners of his lips. Yurio’s tilt upward in answer, feeling like they’re playing chess where nobody else can see the board. 

 

“Got some spine in Detroit, did you?” Yurio snarks, and Yuuri responds by placing his hand over Yurio’s wrist where it holds his elbow, removing it with one firm motion even as he smirks. Yurio lets himself be pushed away, a weird thrill of surprise tingling down his spine as he realizes that he didn’t  _ have _ to be moved. He wasn’t that petite anymore.  

 

“What were you and Victor always saying about surprising people?” Yuuri mimics playfully, drawing an expression of innocence and confusion on his face that can’t hide away the spark of amusement in his eyes at turning Yurio’s words against him. 

 

The fun is ruined by Victor hearing his name and perking up, seemingly teleporting the distance between the chairs and leaning against the back of Yurio’s. Even Victor isn’t stupid enough to encroach that far into Yuuri’s space. 

 

“I heard my name! Were you talking about me, lovely Yuris?” the Russian man coos, and both younger skaters immediately turn away from him as if he’d never spoken. Phichit finally turns back to his boyfriend (where his attention should have been in the first place, Yurio thinks bitterly, surprising himself. It’s just because he’s Yuuri’s friend and wants to make sure he’s dating someone worth his while, he tells himself) and takes note of the situation. It’s almost admirable the way the Thai skater smiles coldly at Victor, calmly grabbing the bottom of Yuuri’s chair and dragging him closer with one arm. 

 

“I think you misheard,” Phichit says cheerily, and Yurio can’t help but smirk as Victor pouts and backs off, turning back to his own boyfriend. Who’s...looking at him odd? Yurio’s smirk slides into a frown, but Otabek just shakes his head like he’s ridding himself of a thought, so Yurio lets it slide. Phichit properly entertains his boyfreind for the rest of the dinner, so Yurio feels confident returning to his own boyfriend. He was just babysitting Yuuri anyway, after all. 

 

That night he slips into bed with a text from both Yuuri and Otabek wishing him luck and proper rest. It’s one of the easiest nights of sleep he’s had before a competition. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so this is a little late but I struggle hardcore with OtaYu and Lulu had to come to my rescue and write almost that entire scene for me (we switched roles and I beta'd it for her). I apologize for my inability to write cute OtaYu. BUT DON'T FEAR. Chapters 5 and 6 are already complete because I am a writing monster who has a regular typing speed of 118 WPM, which was a great source of amusement for Lulu and I during this chapter. So the next two chapters will be up very soon! Keep an eye out!
> 
> I had a feeling I had more notes about this chapter, and explaining our choices and such, but to be honest since I'm two chapters ahead mentally I have no idea what they were. Mostly just a reminder that Lulu and I work very hard on trying to keep these characters the way Kubo made them, while still transforming them into a very tangible presence in the story that readers can connect to and empathize with. Let us know if we ever go wildly off the mark! Also this chapter was almost 18 pages in length, and it is a fucking MONSTROSITY. If you made it to the end, you get kisses from your character of choice (and myself and Lulu, who will do anything for comments and validation).
> 
> Lulu and I hope you love this one just as much! We seriously adore all the comments, I send her screenshots when I get them before her and we try to reply to them equally (her and I replying to different people). Thank you for all your love and support!


	5. Protea -- Courage

_ “What is your theme for this year’s competitive season, Mr. Katsuki?” _

 

_ “Bravery.” _

 

\------

 

Yuuri slides into bed early that evening, feeling unsettled. It's not the normal anxiety before a competition, the nerves that dull slowly with each program performed successfully yet which never fully lose their sting. Had it been seeing Victor again? True it had been quite the shock seeing the man in person, not quite the same despite still following his social media. But they hadn't been left alone together, and Yurio had interrupted the only time that Victor had attempted to speak to Yuuri when Phichit had been distracted. 

 

_ Yurio… _

 

The blond Russian had certainly changed in the span of just under a year. He had grown up and out like a stubborn weed, as tall as Victor if not taller. Clearly his growth was not quite over, but it had been...surprising nonetheless. Yurio had looked like a  _ man.  _ Not that Yurio had ever been a child to Yuuri, he was far too mature, his presence always a little larger-than-life in contrast to Yuuri’s meekness. Yurio had always been to eager to grow, too willing to sacrifice everything to display his own strength for Yuuri to ever take him as anything less than a fair competitor. An equal. Perhaps that was why Yurio had not regarded him as someone to prove wrong during their first year of competition together. 

 

But Yurio had well and truly grown. With a strong jaw and those same piercing green eyes that had always been his strongest point, Yurio was becoming a very attractive young man. And he had a stunning smile that until recently, Yuuri had been one of the few to truly see. Yuuri almost felt greedy, even jealous of Otabek for making Yurio so happy. He didn't want everyone else seeing Yurio happy. And wasn't that the stupidest thought?

 

Still, Yuuri can't sleep. Tossing and turning recalling how much fun he'd had in the few hours dinner had provided, hours next to Yurio. The heat of his blood as he let his tongue sharpen against Yurio’s playful wit and snark. Phichit was too kind for that kind of sass, and the Russians he'd had such fun bantering with were not there to let him explore that unknown side of himself. He'd truly missed Yurio. It was _ good  _ to see him happy, Yuuri told himself. It was  _ good _ to see him grown and comfortable and as content as the the Tiger could be. But then why couldn't he sleep?

 

\------

 

Morning dawns early, Yuuri awakening first as always to the ring of his alarm. Phichit grumbles and rolls back over away from the invasive noise, as if the mere idea of waking up for a competition he wouldn't be participating in was too much to handle. Yuuri smiles, leaning over to kiss Phichit’s hair softly before reluctantly climbing out of bed to go find the breakfast that was always included in these fancy hotels reserved for official skaters.

 

It's early, so there aren't many in the dining hall, but Yuuri says hello and smiles at those he recognizes. He’d learned his lesson with Minami, and the past year before leaving Russia he had striven to make more friends in his competitors. It helped to make him feel less alone out on the ice. He's grabbing a muffin when his name is called from across the room, and he turns and sees Yurio striding towards him on unfairly long legs. 

 

“Good morning Yurio,” Yuuri greets warmly as the taller skater moves in beside him, green eyes glancing over the food without settling on anything. Yuuri turns back to loading a plate for himself and Phichit, Yurio trailing behind him as he moves down the tables to find the right mix of items. He can’t help that he dawdles, roaming around the tables anxiously. Yurio follows after him loyally, seemingly apathetic to the fact that Yuuri isn’t moving in any sort of straight line. 

 

“Nervous about your program?” Yurio asks unexpectedly. It's asked almost challengingly, like Yurio is still unsure how to word things to express the concern that fuels the question. Yuuri sees right through him nonetheless and smiles a little to himself. They both know each other a little too well after two years of competitions and bonding.

 

“A little. I picked bravery this year to hopefully conquer what little of my anxiety is left to overcome, but it doesn't magically go away unfortunately.” Yurio seems surprised by his answer. Yuuri had always been a truthful person, but he had always been reticent to talk about his feelings, especially his anxiety. It was a miracle Victor had known about it at all, with how obtuse the man could be. Yuuri still wasn't comfortable with revealing his insecurities though, and so he softly clears his throats before Yurio can try to comfort him. 

 

“Did Otabek inspire your theme this year? Growth?” Then he quickly puts a hand over his lips, surprised at his own bold question. The plate in his hand wobbles dangerously and Yurio jolts forward to steady it, their fingers brushing together and against the porcelain grooves on the underside. Yuuri tries to find his breath - was he really that startled by almost dropping a plate? 

 

“Clumsy piggy,” Yurio mutters down at him, standing far too close. Yuuri’s immediate thought is of reporters, though he's not sure why. It's an entirely platonic stance. 

 

“Ah, I'm sorry Yura I shouldn't have asked. It's private, and it doesn’t have to mean  _ romantic  _ growth, and it was a silly question, I shouldn’t assume.” He takes the plate back and uses both hands this time, steadying his shaking wrists by gripping the edges as he tries to slow the nervous babble of his words. Yurio’s brows scrunch together in that same adorable fashion that Yuuri remembers from when they'd met in Sochi. Apparently some ticks never change. Yuuri takes a mental step back at that thought.  _ What am I so nostalgic for? It hasn't even been a year since I left! _

 

“Kinda,” comes Yurio’s gruff, embarrassed reply, even though Yuuri had essentially let him off the hook from answering. It takes Yuuri a second to switch gears after his verbal fumbling, realizing Yurio was answering the question about Otabek. The teen shoves his hands in his jacket pocket, yet another familiar motion that makes Yuuri smile a little. Maybe this was still his Yurio after all. 

 

... _ his _ Yurio? 

 

“Agape was a huge challenge for me to skate. I took a break from the theme last year, but I wanted to revisit it somehow. Now that I...have more experience and all that crap,” Yurio mutters, but the tips of his ears are pink in contrast to the beautifully harsh angles of his jaw and brow. Yuuri thinks about teasing him further, just to be a brat (and maybe get revenge for all the grief Yurio had given him over the years), but it’s not in him to wheedle at something so sensitive in Yurio. 

 

Instead he reaches out and places a hand gently on the widened curve of Yurio’s closest bicep. It brings Yurio’s attention back to his face, and Yuuri smiles sincerely, easily ignoring the cacophony of confused thoughts in the far back of his mind. 

 

“I’m glad. You deserve that kind of happiness, and Otabek seems to love you very much,” he confesses quietly, away from potentially prying ears, trying to preserve Yurio’s privacy as much as he can. He doesn’t anticipate a response from Yurio, who has always been very private and reticent to thank anybody for anything, so he turns back to the buffet table. Which is why it’s so surprising when Yurio puts both hands on his upper arms and swings him back around. The food slides dangerously along the plate, but Yuuri is too busy startling and staring up at Yurio to care. 

 

“And you? What about you, idiot? That Thai skater…” Yurio clearly struggles to figure out how to end his sentence, and Yuuri stands shocked where he was dragged, a thousand potential endings to that question floating around in his head.  _ Does he make you happy? Do you love him? Is he a rebound? _

 

Instead of waiting for Yurio to finish, to say something that will potentially force Yuuri to face those questions for himself, Yuuri places his free hand over one of Yurio’s. It’s a comical difference, Yurio’s hands sprouting like a puppy growing into its paws. They’re a man’s hands. Large, calloused by cold winters and too many scrapes on the ice. Yuuri grips it gently. Both comforting and silencing. He's not strong enough to visit those questions in the sanctity of his own head, and he can't bear to try and give Yurio an answer. 

 

“I’m happy too, Yuri.”

 

Whether it’s the admission or the rare use of Yurio’s real, proper name, the blond’s tight shoulders finally relax. At least he believes him. 

 

“Good,” Yurio grumbles softly, finally releasing Yuuri. They stand frozen, like neither of them really know where to go or what to do after that kind of conversation. Yurio finally clears his throat and Yuuri turns back to gathering food for himself and Phichitas an excuse to look away from those intense seafoam eyes. 

 

Yurio still walks with him until he finishes, like some sort of red-and-white-clad guard dog. It’s amusing enough to make Yuuri bold as they near the exit, and he reaches out to one-arm hug Yurio’s waist, a quick squeeze and then he’s walking off. Not enough time for Yurio to even think about pushing him away. 

 

“See you at the short program, Yurio!”

 

“Don’t call me that, piggy!”

 

As if it had mattered all the other times Yuuri had said it. Yuuri is still smiling by the time he reaches his room. 

 

\------

 

Celestino sits beside him while Yuuri does his stretches, murmuring gentle reminders and tips that are barely audible over Yuuri’s short program music in his ears. He’s one of the first up, and the anxiety is already clawing across his nerve endings like a physical being. He can’t stand the static immobility, the waiting, watching the clock tick down in his mind’s eye. Counting the seconds that turn into minutes as the song hums on repeat in his ears. Celestino still looks at a loss as he watches Yuuri’s stoicism, not sure how to handle Yuuri’s nerves any better now than when he’d been 17. Yuuri stands unsteadily and turns away from the forms of his competitors, facing the wall and trying to level his breathing as he stretches out his calves. Phichit was not allowed in the back room since he would be competing in the last event, and his boyfriend is lost somewhere in the swarm of faces out in the crowd beyond the curtains. Yuuri won’t even be able to see him by the time he steps onto the rinkside, and the thought is disorienting. He yearns for the quiet support of his boyfriend, the warm touch of his distracting hand. 

 

_ No. I’m not relying on people anymore for my skating. I can do this. I can do this. I can - _

 

“Yuuri,” his name is spoken as someone pops out his earbud, and Yuuri jolts so hard he nearly smacks his head against the wall. It’s Christophe, who is skating his last competitive year. The man looks down on Yuuri, something quiet and understanding in his gaze. They don’t speak for a long moment as Christophe picks up Yuuri’s hand and drops his earbud into his palm. 

 

“Your theme is bravery, right?” Yuuri can scarcely nod to Christophe’s question, shaking hand slowly curling around his earbud as he stares up into the Swiss man’s eyes. Christophe smiles, lifting one hand to rest gently on Yuuri’s collarbone in a physical display of a friendship Yuuri had been fostering since their first Grand Prix together. The loneliness sweeps away looking into Christophe’s eyes, recalling that he isn’t alone even with all the new skaters fighting in Internationals. Christophe leans close to Yuuri’s open ear, the hum of his music seeming to disappear where his other earbud is still tucked into his ear.

 

“Victor, Yuri, and Phichit are all out there waiting. They have been supporting you for a long time. But it is time to skate for  _ yourself. _ That is the only way you will truly be brave.” The blond man withdraws with a warm, paternal smile, squeezing Yuuri’s collarbone gently. Yuuri just stares at him, feeling overwhelmed by how kind and unnecessary Christophe’s actions were. Then again, Christophe loved fair competition almost as much as Yurio. 

 

“I want a hard fight for my gold medal,” Christophe parts with a wink and a grin, hand slipping free and leaving Yuuri’s skin cold as he turns and walks through the hallway out to the rinkside. The nerves don’t magically go away with the imparting of the advice, but something important clicks in Yuuri’s mind as he watches Christophe walk away. He clutches his earbud and wonders why he ever felt alone in the first place. 

 

\------

 

When his name is called, Yuuri steps onto the ice with one last deep exhale. The stadiums quiet, and he skates to the center. Everything hangs suspended in white noise static beneath his trembling skin. But as the music begins, Yuuri lets it all fall away. 

 

He has practiced this piece so many times, late into the night and early in the morning. He had created the program himself, spending days turning choreography in his head, dancing across the living room to a music only he could hear. Yuuri had taken his heart from his chest and examined it at every angle, twisting it into the shape he needed in order to tell his story to the audience. He had even included a quad lutz. It would be used to show that Yuuri was an individual, capable of standing and skating on his own power, that he was brave enough to push himself to the limits without cracking beneath the pressure. 

 

Two minutes feel like an eternity out on the ice, he thinks midway through a layback spin as his molasses-slow thoughts catch up with him. It’s a feminine spin, but he loses himself to the momentum and doesn’t think about the voices that whisper their curiosities behind his back. That recall his Eros routine, his dedication to a part of the story they’d never expected from him. There is more to changing the world of figure skating than dangerous jumps, and he embodies what Victor had opened his eyes to long ago with Eros, determined to use his uniqueness against all those who condemned him for welcoming feminine input. Beauty, power, worldly wiles, fluidity of gender and emotion, expression. He loves it, lives it, lets it flow through his body as surely as the song he dances to. 

 

Yuuri spins up easily into a Biellmann from the layback, the crescendo of the music and the roaring of the crowd in his ears.  _ Bravery.  _ Telling the story with his body of a nervous, terrified child blossoming into something beautiful and powerful. A competitor. A  _ star _ . A Japanese skater worthy of the meaning behind each kanji of his name. The song is a prolonged crescendo that tells the story of Yuuri’s life with every note and strike of his blade against the ice. It’s more than Yuuri  _ on Ice _ . It’s just...Yuuri. All of him. Every flaw, mar, and imperfection. Everything he’d tried to hide from the audience for so long, willfully displayed for the first time. 

 

The last long note hits its peak as he strikes his toepick into the ice, and his body revolves into a quadruple lutz. There is no discernible thought in his head except the balance of his body until he’s gliding backwards on the ice, and then he realizes that he  _ landed it. _ Yuuri does not conceal his triumph as he moves into his last pose. Lets it infect his performance, inspired by the difficulty of the jump, a measure of his growth that nobody could ever deny. It took courage to include it in his program at all, and it had resonated perfectly with his theme. And he had done it.  _ Finally. _ A jump that had a slightly higher base score than the flip, but easier for his body to accomplish. 

 

There’s a collective held breath as Yuuri pants unsteadily in his ending pose, and then the crowd  _ explodes. _

 

Yuuri can’t help the few tears that bud in his eyes as he stands in the center of the rink, listening to the cheers of the crowd. 

 

\------

 

Celestino meets him at the kiss and cry, and Yuuri is quickly handed his glasses so he can see the score properly. He’s anxious - his Salchow still wasn’t perfect, it was Yurio’s specialty more than his own, but he’d intentionally put in difficult jumps (either by score or his own difficulty achieving them) to fit the theme of the year. Then the scores arrive on the screen, and the screaming of the audience drowns out the rest of the commentator who presents it.

 

103.45

 

He broke the hundred mark. He did it. He finally broke the hundred on his short program.

 

Yuuri is barely realizing he’s screaming and laughing ecstatically as Celestino sweeps him up into his arms, hollering just as loudly in his ear. It’s...different, without Victor, but it’s not a bad different. 

 

_ You have to skate for yourself. _

 

Yuuri spares a moment to mentally thank Chris for his words. 

 

\------

 

Yuuri is ushered into a stream of interviews and photographs as the next skater - a new kid, he believes - takes to the ice. Yuuri still isn’t very good at answering questions in a suave, practiced manner (considering he isn’t suave at all even on his best days), but the adrenaline and excitement bolster him enough to satisfy the vultures decently. Celestino luckily takes over for most of the questions, redirecting questions about Victor and Yuuri’s disappearance from Russia with an experienced hand that Yuuri undoubtedly appreciates. Yuuri recalls why he had stayed so long with the kind, happy man, and thanks him softly as they depart from the crowd. Celestino, as was his way, only grins and hugs Yuuri tight around the shoulders, pride oozing from every pore. 

 

“Yuuri!” A voice cries over the buzz of activity, and Yuuri spins to search for the source, already eager to find his boyfriend. It was a shame they weren’t competing against each other directly, though they had in the previous year when he’d won gold, but Yuuri would be there in person to see it nonetheless. Yurio was in the same competition, as well.

 

The Thai skater is easily noticeable with how he hurries through the crowd, a beaming smile on his face as he sweeps into Yuuri’s personal space like a storm. Phichit throws his arms around Yuuri in a way that leaves him dazed and flushed, but even so he can’t stop his own smile.

 

“You were incredible! You broke one hundred! I’m so proud of you!” Phichit crows excitedly, dancing around with Yuuri in his arms, making the Japanese skater laugh as they spin in circles. Something feels like it’s missing when Phichit leans down to awkwardly kiss him through their shared smiles, but he’s riding too high to think about it.

 

\------

 

At the end of the short program, Yuuri is in first place. Christophe tails him in second, and Otabek in third. Yuuri can’t help but feel a sense of loss, knowing Christophe is retiring that year. Otabek on the other hand is a fierce competitor, and he briefly muses over who Yurio is hoping will win. It’s a shameful thought, and Yuuri buries his head in his hands at such a selfish, cruel thing to think. He’s alone in his hotel room, Phichit off somewhere exploring the town. Yuuri had happily waved him off, too tired to want to participate in such festivities. It reminded him a little too much of Barcelona, actually, and his heart was too weak to recall such memories after such a success. 

 

A notification from his phone draws his attention away from that trainwreck of a thought, swallowing down memories of golden rings and laughter like a lump in his throat. It’s Yurio, so he swipes the screen open listlessly.

 

_ Yura [08:17pm]: you may have broken 100 but i’m still winning gold back this year, don’t get cocky _

 

Yuuri smiles and lets himself fall back on the bed, feet still planted securely on the carpet. It’s the only compliment Yurio can really word, but Yuuri doesn’t mind. Yurio had already made leaps and bounds in the socialization department with Otabek. He was growing up, Yuuri realized wistfully.

 

_ Yuuri [08:20pm]: I’m sure you will, but I won’t make it easy! We both have something to prove this year _

 

Yuuri can almost feel Yurio’s confusion in the blinking here-and-gone of the ellipses as Yurio types and deletes repeatedly. Until finally the alert comes through. Yuuri doesn’t read it for a few minutes, staring unseeing at the hotel ceiling. But he knows if he doesn’t answer, Yurio will just start angrily blowing up his phone, so he brings his phone back up to this face to read it. 

 

_ Yura [08:22pm]: to yourself or to victor? _

_ Yura [08:23pm]: i don’t have anything to prove shut up what does that even mean _

 

It’s a barb straight to Yuuri’s heart, even if Yurio doesn’t intend it to be. Yuuri throws his phone to the other bed and turns around to bury his face in the bedspread. It’s a sting, that people think he’s doing this to somehow prove a point to Victor and  _ only  _ Victor. It hurts worse that Yurio would think that. Yes, in part it had been to prove he could stand apart from Victor both emotionally and as a competitor, but it was so that he could prove it to  _ himself.  _ He’d never intended it to be some sort of revenge against Victor. 

 

His phone keeps buzzing for a good fifteen minutes before Yurio clearly gives up. Yuuri turns the light off and slips beneath the sheets, his win sour on his tongue with confusion. The air of the room is so cold it burns in his lungs, he tells himself. He feels hollowed out, and is surprised when he touches his own chest and doesn’t feel the scraping edges of his raw glass heart. Yuuri never thought Yurio would hurt him the same way Victor had, and he wonders when his protector learned the fastest ways to the destruction of his entire world. When he ever let Yurio in that close.  _ Close, but so far. Always too far for Yuuri’s helplessly reaching hands, greedy and desperate for a beauty he’s not allowed to touch.  _

 

\------

 

His phone is back on his nightstand the next morning. Phichit must have moved it, because when he awakens to his alarm it’s right there next to his glasses, which Phichit definitely had a hand in if Yuuri had fallen asleep with them on. He quickly silences his alarm to give Phichit more time to sleep again, slipping slowly away from Phichit’s warm body. He wants to stay, to shake Phichit awake and tell him everything. Let Phichit cradle him close and drag Yuuri back under the covers so they can pretend it’s just the two of them in the world for a few more hours. But he can’t, and so he gently cups Phichit’s cheek with his hand and wonders what’s holding him back. Yuuri slips out the door and back down to the buffet for breakfast. He eats at one of the tables instead of returning to the lonely quiet of his hotel room, picking idly at his scrambled eggs. 

 

Until Yurio is there sliding into the seat across from him, like the worst kind of deja vu from the previous morning. Yuuri’s shoulders automatically tense, hunching up around his ears in defensiveness. He hadn’t read Yurio’s last few texts, having fallen asleep, and he’s not sure what level of “pissed off” Yurio is sitting on. Should he apologize for having ignored Yurio? And yet he’d been the one hurt by Yurio’s careless words. Had he missed something by not checking his phone? 

 

They sit in tense silence until Yurio kicks idly at the floor and scoffs, clearly sick of the silent standoff.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

It’s so surprising that Yuuri nearly sends his scrambled eggs flying, which certainly wouldn’t have helped matters. 

 

“Uh...wha-?”

 

“I said I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have made it about that asshat, it crossed the line. You did great on the short program, so don’t even try moping about it and fucking up your free skate today.” One hand sweeps back over Yurio’s growing hair, a scowl tugging at his lips as he resolutely refuses to look Yuuri in the eye. Or anywhere in his general vicinity, even. 

 

Now, Yuuri is not an aggressive person in the least, and it’s an easy enough thing to forgive. Yurio was careless with his words most days back in St. Petersburg, and Yuuri had learned to listen to the unsaid words in between that really mattered. The problem was he didn’t have that kind of privilege through text messages, and it had stung far worse because of it. Yuuri sets his plate to the side and lets the issue fade from his mind for now, smiling quietly to himself.

 

“You’re learning a lot about communication, Yura, but you still don’t always say what you mean.” He goes to stand up, scooting his chair back and picking up the discarded plate as Yurio whirls around to stare at him with narrowed seaglass eyes. Before he can come up with some kind of biting retort at the lukewarm chastisement, Yuuri waves a loose wrist to stop him from saying anything.

 

“I shouldn’t have brought up your theme or implied it was about Otabek. You can keep your relationship as private as you want, so I’m sorry too. But thank you for apologizing,” Yuuri murmurs softly, walking away to discard his uneaten food and to leave Yurio with his thoughts. He doesn’t feel much like eating anymore, not that he had in the first place after sleeping so badly. It was rote more than anything, to keep Celestino off his back and keep his energy up for the free skate. 

 

Yurio doesn’t seem keen on letting him walk away, though. He stands as well, leaving his chair wherever it ends up and stalking after Yuuri. Even still he looks like he isn’t sure what to say, something warring behind his features that Yuuri can’t quite make out. Clearly he intends to hound Yuuri until he sorts it out in his head, though, which is equally amusing and exasperating for the Japanese man. They walk out of the banquet room together, neither entirely sure what to do or where to go but both too stubborn to stop. 

 

“I’m not...trying to prove anything to Ota. That’s not what it’s like.”

 

Yuuri smiles and puts his hands in his pockets with a little shrug of his shoulders, privately pleased that Yurio broke first.

 

“You don’t have to explain your relationship to me, Yura. If you love him and you’re happy, it’s not my place to ask questions.” Even if he wants to. He  _ desperately _ wants to, because it has been months of only text messages and blurry instagram photos, and Yuuri misses being part of Yurio’s day to day life. He misses not having to ask in the first place, because he was  _ there _ and he knew about it already. They’d become close friends in the year Yuuri had spent in Russia, and he missed that closeness; having Yurio over for dinner with him and Victor, trading tips as they practiced their programs, playing with Yurio’s cat. Yurio’s life didn’t have that same place for him any longer, and it was painful to realize how much he’d missed out on. 

 

“I...I better go wake up Phichit,” he fumbles, feeling the realization cresting over him like a wave of loss. He hurries for the elevator, keeping his face down as he jams the button desperately with his thumb. Yurio just stands in the hallway looking dumbfounded and lost, and Yuuri makes sure he doesn’t look as the doors close. 

 

\------

 

The free skate is more difficult, as expected with doubled length. Yuuri had placed a lot of his jumps in the second half for difficulty, though he was trying to pace himself through the competitions. High enough scores to earn a spot at the Grand Prix, but not enough to burn out or reveal all his cards too early. 

 

When he goes to the rinkside to prepare for his free skate, the nerves are suspiciously quiet. His anxiety retreats momentarily with the rush of adrenaline that comes as he checks his skates one last time. His outfit is a subdued pink color, darkening around the heart and bleeding down the side of his ribs in a macabre sort of beauty. When he'd coordinated with the seamstress he had quietly asked for something to allude to a broken heart, and she had delivered beautifully. He wears full gloves for once, stained red around the palms for part of his performance. It's one of the most revealing, intimate outfits he has ever worn, and it's the reason behind his returning anxiety. 

 

But that was why he'd chosen it. Because it scared him. 

 

It scared him to reveal how deeply in love he'd been with Victor, how blind he'd been to his own needs. Maybe Yurio hadn’t been so off the mark. But Yuuri had made his overarching theme bravery to focus on the two things that scared him most in order to overcome them: fear of performance, and fear of opening himself up to people. Phichit had been patient and kind, but even being his best friend Yuuri struggled to truly love him the way Phichit deserved. Opening himself up to love, to praise, to idolization from fans...it took bravery. And so he would skate to it, to the best of his ability. Prove to himself and to Yurio that it  _ wasn’t _ all about Victor, in the end. 

 

The lights cut down as he makes his way to the center of the ice. It blocks the crowd from his view better than any lack of glasses could achieve, and warm reds and golds spill onto the ice from the lights above. As the music starts he sways forward, letting the music pull on his limbs, acting out a story of being tugged to and fro. Following Victor everywhere, letting himself be forgotten in the face of potential romance. He can almost feel every touch Victor ever imparted on his skin, little ghosts of pinpricks and pressure that Yuuri will never be rid of. A tattoo that only he could see and feel. 

 

The music is melancholy, with insistent vibrato strings that cry in the silence left by the crowd. 

 

Yuuri drops into his lunge and brings his hands to his chest, as if transferring the red from his heart to his hands, and let's them fall to his sides for the audience to see. Lifts his chest to the lights and lets himself rise, the tune turning hopeful and tremulous. Nervous, tentative. Trying to be hopeful in the face of terrible pain. His eyes sting from cold and emotion as he lifts into his triple axel, trying to tell the crowd with his staple jump that he was trying to find stable ground. Then a triple-quad toe combo, expressing the mountainous journey he was trying to undertake. 

 

The strings rise, their cello notes deepening with slow surety only to suddenly cut to the whisper of a quiet violin as he slides into his Ina Bauer. A long, protracted slide across the ice as he lets his head fall back, baring his bloodied “heart” to the audience.  _ This is where I try again. Putting my heart out there, to be broken again or...or maybe not. Maybe find happiness.  _

 

And then, stubbornly, right at the end…

 

A quad flip. 

 

And he  _ lands it.  _ Just like the Grand Prix Final where he'd gotten silver  _ and _ gold the next year. He wobbles on his outside edge, barely catching himself, but it doesn't matter if his GOE suffers. It's a message to all of them, to  _ Victor _ . That his love did not revolve around the Russian anymore. That he was still powerful. That he could still love, that Victor wasn’t big enough or bad enough to ever bring Katsuki Yuuri to his knees. 

 

Just like his quad Lutz in his short program, it's a daring jump. He hopes that Phichit is watching, that Victor and...and  _ Yurio  _ are watching. He was being brave at last, and he would not be crippled and turned away from love because of his past. In fact he had found new love, even if it was not the same kind of love. He was trying his best to be happy, and that was all that mattered.

 

The tears come once more as he finishes the program in his final pose: one knee to the ice in a still lunge, arms spread wide and head tilted back. At the mercy of the crowd, the reporters, the judges. Brave enough to show everything. 

 

\------

 

Celestino is crying as Yuuri stands on the podium with the gold medal from the Trophée de France, Christophe to his right and Otabek to his left. Yuuri can't blame him, he'd cried after the reveal of his scores as well. 

 

\------

 

Phichit cries too, when they finally meet back up in the crowd. They don't kiss in front of all the reporters, but he's still enveloped in a tight hug. 

 

“You were beautiful,” Phichit whispers emotionally against his ear, and Yuuri hugs back just as tight. Over his shoulder he can see Yurio and Otabek talking to each other in hushed whispers with smiles, and hugs Phichit tighter. 

 

_ Were you watching me too, Yura? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! From the last note I mentioned I had chapters 5 and 6 ready, so it was agony waiting to publish this at LEAST after a day wait haha. Also here's something you may not know about me - I was a competitive figure skater! So some notes on the chapter: the layback is a feminine move, and in some ways so is the Bielmann because it's such a flexible move. Also, despite what the anime conveyed, the quad flip has been landed (under rotated, I believe) by like, two people. The quadruple lutz on the other hand has been landed a few times, and has a base score of 11.8 instead of 11.3 (quad flip). Flips are a LOT harder because you have to use your entire body for the momentum of the jump, while other jumps like toe loops use a hard kick against the ice from your toe pick which gives you more leverage. (If I get too caught up in the technicalities, please let me know! I try to write it so that anyone can read it and understand, while still getting swept away in the emotions that you feel out on the ice. I miss competitions!)
> 
> Yu2 is picking up in this chapter and chapter 6! Slowly but surely haha. It'll probably be up tomorrow or the day after, depending on how far ahead I can get on chapter 7. Thank you for all your comments!
> 
> ALSO if anyone has a better summary for the actual story, please send them my way or put them in a comment! I can write a little story or drabble for whoever can come up with one, since I suck so bad at them haha.


	6. Daffodil -- Uncertainty; New Beginnings

Yurio  _ was  _ watching.

 

From the second Yuuri takes to the ice, revealing his costume, Yurio is on the edge of his seat. The lights dim, and all he can see is Yuuri clad in the diluted reds of his costume, waiting in his starting pose for the music to start. His elbows come forward to rest on his thighs, clenched hands concealing the way his lips tremble as Yuuri skates his emotions so beautifully from the very first chord as the music rings out in the quiet. The string concerto introduces his story, a quiet resonance of unrequited love and being overlooked for so many years. Victor next to him makes a noise like he’s been wounded, but Yurio can’t even spare a molecule of focus for his rinkmate. Not when the music is lifting, when Yuuri is sliding into his lunge, and Yurio’s breath hitches as Yuuri brings his hands to his breast and then reveals the shock of red along his palms. 

 

_ Broken hearted. _

 

Yurio has to press his lips into his hands, trying not to remember Yuuri’s tearstained face and listlessness in St. Petersburg, the way he had cried into Yurio’s shoulder, but he can’t. It’s too pressing an image as Yuuri takes those same memories and translates them to his skating. He’s refusing to let anyone look away, and Yurio is caught in his web, recalling every sad memory he’d silently witnessed. It’s the rawest, most intimate thing Yurio has  _ ever _ seen. Yuuri was telling the story of his own shattered heart to the entire world, but nobody knew the depth of it like Yurio did. Not when he’d been there, had cradled the shattered pieces of Yuuri’s heart in his inadequate, nervously shaking hands. It was a tragically stunning display of artistry and honesty, and Yurio was rigid and barely breathing in his seat as Yuuri delivered it flawlessly with his step sequences. 

 

Yuuri’s triple axel is impeccable, as it always is. It’s one of his signature moves, and Yurio hates that he can’t see his own potential if he can do such difficult jumps. The music rises, and Yurio jolts as Yuuri lands his combination, the difficulty of his journey expressed clearly in the rotations. Struggling forward, moving to Detroit, attempting love once more. Only when the music suddenly cuts, leaving the audience collectively breathless with the surprising turn of the music does Yurio realize he’s halfway out of his seat. He sinks down shakily, watching how Yuuri travels the ice in his Ina Bauer. Heart bared to the audience, arms drawn back, eyes fluttering closed. Opening himself up for everyone and everything, fearless in the face of all the things they could throw his way to hurt him, and Yurio feels his eyes sting angrily. It’s a moving moment of delicacy, of submission. Beside him, Victor takes a strained breath. 

 

Yurio wants to turn and shove him, cover his eyes. He doesn’t deserve to witness this, something so innocent and brave. Victor doesn’t deserve to see Yuuri finding his own spark, not when he’d nearly crushed it a few months ago. But before he can turn and do it, Yuuri is rising from his pose and picking up speed, drawing Yurio’s attention like a magnet and - 

 

Yurio knows what it is the same second Victor does, and they both gasp in unison as Yuuri spins on his blade and leaps into a quadruple flip. And then, before anyone can catch their breath, he’s circling back to the center and slowly sliding to one knee in his end pose. The audience is frozen as the music dies out, and then it’s nothing but screams.

 

Beside him, Victor stands abruptly and rushes away. 

 

Yurio is left dazed in his seat, hands dropping limply between his thighs. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, and he has to cover his face with one hand, overwhelmed. 

 

Katsuki Yuuri will be the death of him. 

 

\------

 

Yurio never gets to congratulate him at the rink. Otabek reaches him first as they converge into a giant mass of bodies after leaving the podium, and Yurio proudly hugs him, sliding his lips against the Kazakh’s cheek and murmuring embarrassed praise for the bronze that hangs around his boyfriend’s neck. He deserves it, truly. Otabek smiles broadly, and by the time Yurio turns and even thinks about finding Yuuri again, the man is gone. The unspoken words burn in his throat, and no amount of swallowing will make it go away. 

 

Otabek takes his hand and they walk away from the reporters, back to where Otabek’s coach stands waiting to bring them back to the hotel safely. 

 

\------

 

Otabek abandons Yurio to the cruelties of the banquet. Yurio gets it, because his boyfriend isn’t much for crowds and his dancing is atrocious off the ice, but he still grumbles and shoves things around as he gets into his suit. Yakov had to take him to a new tailor a few weeks before they left for France, because Yurio had outgrown his old suits in every way possible and simply wouldn’t  _ stop _ growing long enough to make any of his measurements meaningful. While Yurio didn’t want to be at the banquet either, Yakov was far stricter about it than Otabek’s coach. 

 

He arrives, and smirks as he saunters towards the table of champagne.  _ France is great, _ he thinks to himself as he plucks a glass off the table and sips at it, turning to survey the rest of the crowd. 

 

Christophe is flirting with the women’s single skaters, but Yurio knows his husband is somewhere in the crowd and simply rolls his eyes. Guang-Hong, Leo, and Phichit are huddled around taking selfies in their suits, tugging a reluctant Yuuri into as many as they can. With six hands between them, it’s a decent amount. Yuuri looks uncomfortable with the entire situation, but the adoration in his eyes when he looks at Phichit is telling. He’s doing it because his boyfriend is asking. Yurio is irritated by the fact that Yuuri would do something like that for someone, so hangs back instead of giving Yuuri an excuse to leave, drinking two more glasses of champagne. It’s not his problem, he tells himself. Yuuri has a spine and Yurio knows it, he can use it if he wants. 

 

Until the bubbles start going to his head, and he wonders if Yuuri really would do anything for love. For  _ someone _ he loves. The same way he tolerates Phichit’s selfies even when he doesn’t like it. It’s a dangerous thing to think, and Yurio wonders why Yuuri is so infallibly loyal. It’s infuriating. 

 

A new song transitions over the speakers, couples and strangers alike grabbing each other’s hands and starting up an easy waltz. Lilia is staring at him from across the room like she intends to force him to dance with her if he doesn’t pick someone himself, and Yurio hunches his shoulders high and mentally curses her out. Her hawklike eyes narrow at him, and he stubbornly turns his eyes away from her, telling himself it’s not because he’s afraid of her. Lilia begins to stride towards him, and Yurio is absolutely unashamed to say that he immediately hurries away from the wall and snatches Yuuri’s elbow, dragging him away from the group. Phichit gasps and eagerly takes pictures as Yurio swings Yuuri into the proper form, glaring bitterly at Lilia over the man’s head. She’s smirking, clearly smug over her win, and Yurio hates her for it. 

 

Yuuri, for his part, is pretty much staring at Yurio’s chest completely gobsmacked and still trying to figure out what the fuck is going on. Yurio is halfway through the first two steps before Yuuri finally catches up, some sort of instinct as a dancer kicking in. It takes him a few moments to remember how to follow instead of lead, but it’s a nice change of pace to have a partner tall enough to stretch his chest into the proper uplifted position of a follower. Yurio’s hand clasps firmly around Yuuri’s and they waltz around the room with the others for a few seconds before Yuuri finally untangles his tongue. 

 

“Uh, Yurio? We’re um...we’re waltzing?”

 

It’s so amusingly disconnected and dazed that Yurio can’t help but chuckle under his breath. 

 

“Amazing, you have eyes,” he says instead, leading Yuuri around the room. He hates to admit it, but Yuuri can seriously move. He’s leading Yurio, actually, and yet he’s still sliding his feet perfectly in the role of a follower. Yet he’s keeping Yurio on the right beat with the subtlest pressure against his hand or shoulder. Yurio isn’t sure whether to feel impressed or insulted. 

 

“No,  _ why _ are we waltzing?” Yuuri laughs, and Yurio feels something nervous unclench in his chest at the realization that Yuuri isn’t angry about being swept away from his friends and boyfriend to waltz with Yurio without being asked. It makes answering truthfully a lot easier.

 

“Lilia looked like she was going to murder me if I stayed at the champagne table like a certain someone -” Yuuri makes an amused, scandalized noise like he isn’t sure if he should be embarrassed or not “- and was going to try and come over to make me waltz with her. Which, no. Ew. Your boyfriend didn’t seem to mind, and at least  _ you _ can dance.” Unlike the rest of the people Yurio knew (excluding Victor, who was lingering on the sidelines like a predator, and no, Yurio was definitely not letting him out of his sights).

 

“Like clearly  _ you _ can’t,” Yuuri says coyly between his smiling lips, and Yurio’s eyes narrow on that sly expression. He can’t help the competitive flare that burns bright in him, the smirk that curls at the corner of his own mouth. 

 

“Bring it on, Katsuki,” he smirks as the song picks up tempo into the chorus, and he whirls them around. Yuuri yelps in surprise but quickly catches on, russet eyes bright with challenge as they match each other step for step. It’s like the Sochi banquet, a dance off, but this time it’s  _ just _ the two of them (also considerably less breakdancing). The dance floor exists between the spaces of their bodies, and there’s nobody to impress but their partner. 

 

Yurio is good, but damn it, even he knows that Yuuri is better. Each sway of his hips translates so fluidly up his body, and damn it he shouldn’t be looking but Yuuri is positively mesmerizing. It was so easy to forget that Yuuri had trained as a danseur for years long before he ever took to the ice. But Yurio wasn’t going to give up that easily. With a frustrated noise he draws Yuuri close until they’re pressed tightly together, arm dropping from shoulders to waist, and Yuuri’s eyes go wide with recognition right as Yurio lifts him off the floor into a spin. Yuuri is laughing and it’s contagious, and Yurio is grinning slightly to himself as Yuuri obstinately manages to point his toes in dress shoes, relaxing entirely into Yurio’s hold like it doesn’t even matter that spins aren’t normally in traditional waltz. Like he trusts Yurio, willing to do any move if Yurio is the one to guide him into it. It does something awful to Yurio’s chest, but as he sets Yuuri back down on the ground and they finish out their steps, it’s eased away by Yuuri’s cheshire grin. 

 

The music fades and they’re left standing in the open hold of the dance, chests rising with how they’d doubled the tempo in their private little competition. Yurio is smiling secretly, a small thing that quivers like a spark in the corner of his mouth, but Yuuri is positively beaming in contrast. They stare at each other, neither moving, until Yuuri’s breath hitches and his smile wavers, something tentative and shy in his eyes. Yurio couldn’t help his response to that adorably meek expression, sliding barely closer and letting his hand slide down Yuuri’s back to the natural dip of his lower back. Yuuri’s breath quickens, and his hand nervously squeezes Yurio’s where they’re still intertwined. Everything seems to hang on a precarious balance, frozen in time, and Yurio’s eyes flicker helplessly down to Yuuri’s parted mouth. 

 

The crowd bursts into applause. They both jolt and step away from each other quickly, turning away and facing the people clapping for their impromptu performance. Yurio turns to try and say something, to apologize, but Yuuri is already hurrying towards the champagne table like he intends to drown himself in the alcohol to spare himself the realization of what almost just happened. Except it didn’t almost happen. It  _ didn’t. _ Yurio glances around the room and his eyes catch Phichit’s for a moment. Yurio shouldn’t feel guilty. He  _ shouldn’t,  _ he didn’t  _ do  _ anything. But he does, he feels horribly guilty, and he won’t even let himself think about why. He can only recall Yuuri’s laughter, his challenging smile, the way he’d pressed against Yurio’s hand and shoulder and pushed - changing the power dynamic from follower to leader, daring Yurio to take back control of the dance. The way Yuuri had melted into his hold, the way Yurio had been capable of lifting and spinning him like it was nothing. How Yuuri had trusted him to lead while still asking more from him as a follower. It had been...fun. A lot more fun than Yurio had anticipated. 

 

He tears his eyes away from Phichit and follows after Yuuri stubbornly, where the skater had already downed two glasses in the time between his little staredown and his arrival at the table. Yurio sets a hand on the table and leans in, watching Yuuri swallow nervously around his last mouthful. What can he say to make this okay, return things to normal?

 

“Already giving up, katsudon? Isn’t it tradition for us to have a dance off? Now’s my chance to beat you, that song was too short for a real competition,” he grins, refusing to let Yuuri turn what had happened into something awkward. Nothing had happened.  _ Nothing had happened, damn it. _

 

Yuuri looks startled that Yurio came over to confront him, but he takes a deep breath and gives a little smile. 

 

“If I can beat you drunk, I can beat you sober,” Yuuri quips, looking a little steadier on his feet. Phichit wanders over from wherever he’d been, and he laughs at their words sparring against each other. Slings one arm around Yuuri’s waist and winks at Yurio in a way that makes him feel slightly confused and definitely uncomfortable. Like Phichit is privy to a joke that involves him, yet he won’t share the punchline. 

 

“Don’t worry, I will take tons of pictures of your dance battle. I’ll coerce Chris into helping me take over the music,” and Yurio is definitely frightened by the mischievous grin on the Thai skater’s face. Also, why was he encouraging them? Yuuri seems entirely accepting of what he’s saying (of course, it’s his boyfriend and best friend, and Yurio bitterly remembers his previous thought about Yuuri, love, and loyalty) but Yurio is shamelessly looking for a motive. Yuuri just babbles about restraining Chris’s musical choices, and while Phichit laughs and responds, he’s staring at Yurio. There’s something there in his eyes but Yurio can’t decipher it. It just makes him more frustrated. 

 

Phichit scampers away to find Chris, phone already out and prepared, and Yuuri sighs fondly after him. Yurio scoffs under his breath at the sickening cuteness and turns away, only to see Victor slowly heading their way. He curses and whirls back around towards Yuuri, trying to think of what to do. The decision is made for him when the music finally changes, except it’s not upbeat like Yurio expected. It’s a slow song? He glances towards Phichit, utterly confused and a little horrified by the implications of the song choice, but Phichit is gesturing desperately at something just behind Yurio. He grits his teeth in understanding.  _ Victor _ . Yurio curses again and grabs Yuuri’s hand (he’d aimed for the wrist, but he can’t help but marvel at the softness nonetheless, the lack of callouses that riddle his own), stares down at him and spits out the request quickly.

 

“Will you dance with me?!”

 

Yuuri looks stunned by his aggression, but time is running out and Yurio can almost _ hear _ Victor’s footsteps behind them. His ears are still hot but he refuses to let himself blush, because this was Phichit’s and Christophe’s fault and he was just doing what he could to prevent Yuuri from facing that fuckstick any sooner than he had to. Yuuri may have left St. Petersburg, but Yurio wasn’t done defending and protecting him from that asshole.

 

Yuuri’s cheeks, in contrast to Yurio’s control, flood red. But he nods and Yurio immediately turns and practically jogs towards the group of couples and friends pairing off for the music. Yuuri stumbles behind him, trying to keep up with Yurio’s long legs, but it gets them away from Victor. Yurio can hear him cursing softly in Russian behind him, and grits his teeth hatefully. Did that guy have no tact? Trying to pick  _ now _ to try and talk to Yuuri? It was one thing to be affected by Yuuri’s free skate, as it clearly had a lot to do with Victor, but the man had no sense of timing. 

 

“Are you okay, Yura?”

 

Yurio shakes out of his thoughts to where Yuuri is peering up at him, concern clear in the soft downward turn of his lips and the scrunch of his nose. Yurio, so unused to concern on his behalf, can’t help but rub a hand nervously over his slicked back bangs. He manages to summon a wry smile on Yuuri’s behalf, and it seems to calm him with how quickly Yuuri turns his head away. The pink at the tips of his ears is curious, though. 

 

Yurio takes the initiative and grabs Yuuri’s hip, drawing him close and using their already clasped hands to complete the hold. His eyes scan restlessly for Victor as they both find the beat, but he can’t help how easy and distracting it is to sway back and forth with Yuuri. It’s a far more intimate pose than the formal waltz, and both their cheeks are a little red as they glide quietly around the floor together. The majority of dancers are real dancers, with some sort of background professionally, so it’s easy enough to blend in with them as they twirl between beats, something restless sinking into each of them. Yurio doesn’t expect it to go any farther.

 

Until Yuuri steps forward, sliding his hand up Yurio’s bicep to hang over his shoulder, fingers gently carding through the wisps of hair at the nape of his neck. It sends a shiver down Yurio’s spine, and he automatically brings Yuuri in closer until the older man’s elbow can rest more comfortably on the downward slope of his arm, fingers still playing with his hair. They’re chest to chest now, and Yurio sways them back to the center of the mass of bodies, feeling suddenly protective of how tired and unguarded Yuuri looks. He wraps his arm entirely around Yuuri’s waist instead of just letting his hand rest on Yuuri’s hip, and they rock in tiny little steps as they hold each other close.

 

Yuuri sighs and sets his cheek on Yurio’s clavicle, and Yurio looks up to the ceiling, fighting down a blush. This isn’t something he can ignore. It’s far more intimate, crossing so many lines, and they’re both involved with other people. Fuck, what is he doing? 

 

Yuuri’s just tired, he tries to tell himself. But then what about  _ him? _ Why is he letting it happen, letting Yuuri press them together from ankles to chests like it’s absolutely normal?

 

Except it  _ feels  _ normal. It feels...right, and Yurio is having a mental meltdown as he looks down at the sweep of Yuuri’s long, dark lashes against his rosey cheeks. How he touches the nape of Yurio’s neck so gently, lets Yurio guide him across the floor without ever opening his eyes except for slow, lethargic blinks that leave butterfly kisses on Yurio’s exposed skin. He looks totally at peace in Yurio’s arms, unbothered by the fact that he was falling asleep on the blond in the middle of a banquet with a crowd of people surrounding them. Yurio hated how it made his heart clench, how he just wanted to find a quiet space in the room to lay him down and watch him sleep. 

 

As the song draws to an end, Yurio can’t help but rub his thumb softly over the side of Yuuri’s hand, loathe to shake him from his dozing. The couples disperse enough that soon they’ll be awkwardly standing as the only ones left on the floor, and so he gently removes Yuuri from his chest, watching the man blink sleepily and smile.  _ Fuck. _

 

He guides Yuuri back to Phichit, who tucks him in close and smiles almost sadly at Yurio. 

 

“Thank you,” Phichit says quietly, and Yurio just kind of shrugs his shoulders, entirely unsure why Phichit would be thanking him for being so close with his boyfriend. He watches Phichit guide Yuuri out of the banquet hall, until he’s standing lost and unsure of himself in the sea of people.

 

Christophe puts a hand on his shoulder, and Yurio doesn’t even have the presence of mind to jump or push him off. 

 

“Oh, mon cher...you are so gone.”

 

\------

 

Yurio doesn’t get to say goodbye in person. Yuuri’s room is already empty when he tries the next morning, clearly having left back for Detroit on an early flight. He grips his hair tightly, feeling something like ruin starting in the cavity of his chest. He’s so confused, frustrated and hateful. He wants to blame Yuuri for making him feel this way, but he doesn’t even have the courage to put a name to  _ what _ he’s feeling. He’s only experienced it once, he was  _ currently _ experiencing it damn it! With Otabek!

 

Fuck, Otabek…

 

Yurio slides down to the floor and knocks his head against the wall, wishing he knew what to do. 

 

Maybe some distance would do them good. It would be just enough time to get his head on straight in the two weeks between the Trophée de France and his own competition, the NHK Trophy. Where he would undoubtedly see Yuuri once more, since he would be competing against Phichit. He just...needed space to think. It was all just a misunderstanding. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! I have been sitting eagerly on this chapter for a while, because I'm a sucker for cute fumbling romance, and even more of a sucker for dancing scenes. As much as I dedicate myself to realism, this is still fiction and I want to get the ball rolling! We all wanna see more of these two cuties, so don't worry, things are officially picking up from here. This chapter is a little smaller than the rest, but I see it as a little window in the timeline, seeing into Yurio's thoughts and the domino effect that's beginning to happen between them. 
> 
> ALSO a lovely, amazing reader made art of Yuuri's costume!!! http://stellakissed.tumblr.com/post/155931445556/smolshimadas-despite-my-quite-mediocre-drawing GO GIVE THEM LOVE! If you're reading this new chapter, again, thank you so so much for loving this fic enough to draw any kind of art for it. It's so touching and I wish I had the words to thank you properly <3


	7. White Chrysanthemum -- Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Yurio age 18](https://68.media.tumblr.com/fe35e5e9b280931a6be492d05c29c32e/tumblr_ojcflbwX4v1r3oyd1o1_540.png) (credit to captaincrapster on tumblr, and it's reblogged on Lulu's!) and then of course [Yurio age 21](http://68.media.tumblr.com/94e2e4baf91e38dbf6228c3c24b987e5/tumblr_oja6ezIGfB1rq2wfao1_540.jpg) which he's heading towards! Hunk alert.

In the two weeks it takes for the NHK Trophy to follow the Trophée de France, Yurio tears himself apart in practice. 

 

Otabek seems too far away to reach for him for solace, having returned to Kazakhstan until the results of Internationals determined whether or not he’d advance. It’s unlikely, with his bronze placement, but his previous placings at Worlds and the Grand Prix might bolster him into the very last spot. They are only three hours apart, but Yurio can barely bring himself to so much as text his boyfriend. Doesn’t feel like he should, with the guilt and confusion that lays thick on his shoulders like a weight he can’t shake off. 

 

He can still remember Yuuri leaning tired and trustful against his chest, the sensation of butterfly kisses from dark lashes that he swears he can still see on his skin. It’s the worst kind of temptation and the slowest realization of his own feelings. He can’t touch his phone, with its old messages of goodnights and well wishes that stare up at him accusingly beneath Otabek’s contact number. Each minute that ticks by seems like a chasm expanding between them, dug by Yurio’s failure to reach out or to repair their quickly deteriorating relationship, and even as that gap widens what lies on the other side looms, big and black and incriminating. What’s even worse is how Yuuri texts him regularly, and Yurio is helpless but to respond in kind. Like he’s hiding away from the reality of his own unfaithfulness, seeking solace in Yuuri’s wit and warm-hearted greetings. There has always been safety in Yuuri.

 

Still, he cannot forgive himself enough to reach out to Otabek, no matter that the only things that had transpired at the banquet were ‘almosts’. Even if they were ‘almosts’ that still haunted him at night, in a way that was too enticing to label a nightmare. They were more befitting fantasies, still draped in soft gauzy fabric that hid as much as it teased , and their weight only piled higher upon his shoulders to bow his head and set a tremor to his hands. 

 

Victor stares at him from the ice as they pass each other in warmup, something knowing and bitterly triumphant on his face. Yurio glares  back but doesn’t rise to that particular temptation, because who is he to talk? He knew nothing about emotions, about caring for others. Victor’s vindictiveness was born out of a harbored anger towards Yurio after the Grand Prix banquet. After Yurio’s decisive siding with Yuuri. 

 

But what did it matter? Of course Yurio cared for Yuuri, they were friends. Yurio had looked up to Yuuri for a long time when he was younger, even had a few posters of the man from Yuuri’s junior days. But even if he wanted to move forward with it, Yuuri surely didn’t see him that way. He hadn’t made the best impression on the Japanese man when he was young and his mouth only knew how to spit insults, no matter what his brain and heart said. On top of that, Yuuri was with  _ Phichit _ . Yuuri’s best friend, perhaps one of his oldest friends. How could Yurio come between that? On a whim, on a what-if? How could he even hope to compete against someone who knew Yuuri so well and loved him in so many different ways? And  _ Otabek. _ Fuck, Otabek. He wasn’t even sure where to start with that.

 

Did he love Otabek? Maybe? It still felt too soon to tell, sometimes. He felt inadequate, broken somehow by his own reticence. Hadn’t they been dating for a few months? Shouldn’t he  _ know _ by now? Yurio truly did like Otabek. He liked kissing him, skating with him, competing against him. Otabek wasn’t big on messaging though, and they were miles away a lot of the time. Yet...it never bothered either of them.  _ Why?  _ Why didn’t it bother them to not see each other? Shouldn’t they be longing for the other person? He may not know a lot about love firsthand, but there had to be a common theme in movies, in poetry written by love crazed writers, in the people he saw daily who longed for someone far from home. There was a  _ reason _ why people missed their loved ones and wanted them near. So why wasn’t he feeling it?

 

Yurio had known since the start that it was casual, mostly because he’d asked for it to be. He’d made it rather clear from the way he’d worded his response to Otabek’s question. Yurio had needed space and time to even grow used to the idea of dating, to intimacy. But now that he was actually used to it? Sure the sex was great, when they managed to see each other. But did he  _ love  _ Otabek?

 

Fuck, but how was he supposed to know?

 

\------

 

Yakov sends him home early after a disastrous hour into morning practice, clearly sensing that Yurio’s head simply wasn’t in the game. He usually just had Victor run extra foundational figures when the elder skater was off in wonderland, but Yurio didn’t often succumb to his inner thoughts. Yakov wasn’t a top coach for nothing, and he knew when to push and when to back off. So he sends Yurio off with a firm squeeze of his shoulder and a single demand: that he speak to his grandfather, and maybe spend the rest of the day sorting through the mess that was clearly in his head. 

 

It’s not a difficult request. Nikolai wasn’t technologically savvy, but Yurio had taught him various videochat functions as soon as he’d moved nine hours away to St. Petersburg for training. He had been young and more afraid than he would have ever dared to admit, and he had longed for the only familial presence he had left. Nikolai must have known somehow, because he’d taken notes and dedicated himself to figuring out the machines that so vexed him, if only to stay close to his grandson.

 

Lilia’s place is a familiar comfort to return to. Yurio has the money to find a place for himself, has since he’d turned 16 and that was more that two years ago now, but she never asks him to leave and he doesn’t consider it often either. The time will come all too soon when he has to face the reality of living alone, but for now he simply enjoys living with her. She’s a simple enough woman, with a taste for delicacy and finery that Yurio can respect. A hard worker, and she certainly demands a lot from him both in the studio and in their shared living space, but he knows she only wants him to be the greatest he can be. It was nice not to be alone, too. 

 

He climbs the steps restlessly, pulling out his phone as he unlocks the front door and lets himself in. It’s quieter than normal, with Lilia still at the studio and the morning still young. Yurio heads straight for his room, feeling like his skin is stretched too tight over the frame of his growing bones. He stumbles over something hidden beneath a discarded shirt, his room still a disaster zone no matter how old he got. Svetlana, his cat, comes to greet him with a purr already humming in her little chest. Yurio smiles as he picks her up, cuddling her close even as he steps around the rest of the random clothes on his floor to lay on his bed. Svetlana seems unbothered by the change in scenery, happily curling up in the dip of his spine as Yurio fiddles with his phone. 

 

Where Nikolai cannot be present physically, Svetlana takes care of his need for companionship. He tries not to disturb her, though she was endlessly patient and would tolerate his shifting for quite a while, as he stares uncertainly down at his phone. 

 

His grandfather’s contact information remains static on the screen, and his thumb hovers nervously over the call button. What’s he supposed to say? Why did Yakov even want him to call his grandfather in the first place?

 

With the answers to those questions not forthcoming, Yurio taps his thumb against the green icon. His mind is too turbulent to figure out on his own, he needs help. He needs to at least hear his grandfather’s voice, if only to take his mind off the torrent of thoughts that scream in his head, trying to make themselves known but only succeeding in drowning out all distinguishable words. Yurio longs for his grandfather’s presence in a way he hasn’t felt since he was in his earlier teens, and his fingers dance restlessly as the ringing tone fills the silence of his room. 

 

Nikolai, retired as he was, answers relatively quickly. The image adjusts to the tune of crackling and shifting fabric, the low rumble of grumbling as Nikolai tries to readjust the camera angle, and then a scruffy bearded face comes into focus on the screen. Yurio can’t help his smile, wishing he could hug him instead of gripping his phone tight in his shaking hand. 

 

“Grandpa!” Yurio greets eagerly, watching his grandfather’s face melt into a warm smile. All traces of previous frustration disappearing as the device performs its intended function. 

 

“Yurochka, how are you? Why are you calling so early, are you not at practice?” A small wrinkle of concern mars the man’s weathered face, clearly aware enough of Yurio’s schedule to recognize the time conflict. With the two of them relying so much on one another with the absence of other family, calls between the two were not only common, but often followed a schedule that Yurio was suddenly not following. The boy in question sighs softly and rests his cheek on his pillow, one arm curled beneath it for support as he gazes down at his phone and his grandfather’s face. 

 

“I...had too much on my mind. Yakov sent me back to Lilia’s, and told me to call you.” He doesn’t say why just yet, not even sure what to say or  _ how _ to say it in a way that won’t make himself face facts and arrive at answers that he’s just...not ready to face yet. Nikolai hums wordlessly in answer, clearly mulling over the admission as he settles back in his armchair. The familiar squeaking of the springs helps calm the erraticism of Yurio’s mind, and he sighs softly into his pillow. 

 

“Yurochka...the competition is only a few days away. What is on your mind?” The gruff vocals are warm alongside the familiar, comforting gravel of its delivery. Yurio drops his head to the pillow, smearing his face along the fabric and trying to gather his thoughts. He knows his grandfather wouldn’t judge him for anything he said or asked, but the embarrassment from himself is enough to weigh his tongue down and make any admission far more difficult than it needs to be. 

 

Nikolai patiently and silently waits him out. Yurio had always been reticent with his words, even in his youth. Expressing himself was not something Yurio took to easily, so Nikolai had perfected his patience, the perfect unassuming silence that would inspire Yurio to speak. They remain in quiet solidarity together until the words finally fall into place and Yurio lifts his face from the pillow to gaze unsteadily into the camera.

 

“I...grandpa, how do you know when you’re in love?”

 

Nikolai does not laugh. He doesn’t patronize or tease. His Yurio was far too brittle inside for such lightheartedness, sometimes. Losing his mother and having an absent father, love was not something Yurio knew how to hold onto or express. When Nikolai had heard of Otabek, he had been proud of his grandson for figuring out what love meant to him. For having the courage to seek it out and pursue it, no matter what other people thought. Was the boy falling even more, then? Considering the gravity of admitting something like love? Odd, as Yurio spoke to him about every single thing in his life, and did not mention Otabek as often as a romance-crazed teen should have. So then...what was the issue?

 

Still, Nikolai could only answer as honestly as he knew how. It was something Yurio honored and desired, and it had likely come from Nikolai’s personality himself. A hard truth was more honorable than an easy lie. 

 

“Hmmm...I knew I loved your grandmother when I could not stop thinking about her. When I realized I would give anything to see her smile, and I would do anything I could to prevent her from ever losing it. I would sooner cut off my own foot than make her cry, though she may have beat me to the punch and done it herself,” he laughs quietly, gaze long and bittersweet as he recalls past arguments and fights, the shape of her smile. Yurio watches in return, quiet and ensnared by his grandfather’s words. 

 

“Seeing her was the best part of my day. I took her to places I never took anyone else, let her see sides of me I wouldn’t show normally. I trusted her, and I knew she trusted me. I saw her flaws as something I could deal with every day, as just another facet to her personality. She was my best friend before she was ever my beloved.” A soft sigh falls from Nikolai’s lips, wistful and quiet in the silence that descends after his words die. Yurio was listening raptly, the rest of the world falling away to the cadence of his grandfather’s words, revealing a world he’d never known. A side to his grandfather he hadn’t been old enough to appreciate when his grandmother had still been alive, one that had been buried further with each year she was gone, until Yurio didn’t even know how to ask until now. 

 

“But...I knew I loved her, truly, when I realized that she made me a better person.”  

 

Yurio exhales softly, trying to take everything in at once. His own thoughts were sluggish, waiting for the last puzzle piece, something that would make everything make sense again. It was close, he can feel it hovering at the tips of his fingers as his eyes trace his grandfather’s sober face. Recalling a woman Yurio had never known, but someone he wished he had, if she had made his grandfather look so...happy. In love. He fears breaking that expression, but his words slip out tentatively nonetheless, needing answers to questions he couldn’t word. A balm to heal the ragged edges of his heart, the spaces he’d tried to fit Otabek into, only for his body to reject it like a foreign object. There’s a place for Otabek, a place where the seams knit together and the spaces are filled with no gaps and no pain, but that place does not exist in his heart romantically. He yearns for the perfect fit, the perfect person. Waiting for the person who would be to Yurio what his grandmother had been to his grandfather. It was the only legacy he wanted to carry - not Victor’s legacy as a Russian legend on the ice, not the youngest Grand Prix gold winner. The only legacy he wanted was the perfectly imperfect love his grandfather had found so many years ago.

 

“What do you mean? How did she make you a better person?”

 

Nikolai laughs, a jovial sound that pulls at Yurio’s lips despite the yearning he’s feeling. He has truly missed his grandfather, regardless of the fact that they call each other daily. It’s not the same as these kinds of conversations. Where Yurio learns a little more about the world, about himself, through his grandfather’s eyes. 

 

“Ah, Yurochka. How did she not? She taught me how to be patient. How to laugh, how to smile without worry or care. I was always someone to play by the rules, and she taught me how to bend them. Even if I was nervous to be so bold, I was too enchanted by her to care about the repercussions.” The grin on Nikolai’s face makes Yurio smirk to himself, wondering how many times the two of them had been caught. How many laws had been disregarded because of his grandmother’s sense of adventure. 

 

“Sometimes we would fight, that woman was as hardheaded as they come sometimes!” Nikolai laughed, rocking back in his chair and shaking his head in loving exasperation. Yurio grinned; Nikolai had told him often enough that his temper had come from his grandmother, not his grandfather like so many assumed. His grandmother had been a real firecracker, no matter her age.

 

Nikolai’s laughter fades, but the fond, sad smile remains.

 

“But I loved her enough to make it work, to come back to her. To  _ apologize, _ even when I thought I was right. My pride mattered less than staying by her side. She made me a better person in so many ways, Yurochka. She saw more in me than I saw in myself. When I looked at her, even back then, I knew I could give her everything and I would not be left wanting. I knew that any time apart from her would be void and lifeless, because with her...ah, my boy. She was like sunshine, and I never realized how dreary the world was until I was in her presence.” One hand lifts to gently cover his mouth, strokes listlessly down his beard. Yurio knows he likes to remember his grandmother, because he had loved her so much.  _ Still _ loves her so much. But it doesn’t make it any easier to know that she’s gone. 

 

They remain in silence for a few long minutes, both unbothered by the time slipping past. Nikolai isn’t a huge talker, but Yurio appreciates the effort he puts in to make things clear to the youngest Plisetsky, even if it sticks his grandfather in a slightly uncomfortably position.  They sit, separated by a generation, but solidly connected in their bond, until finally Yurio takes a breath and lets his own thoughts quietly slip out. 

 

“Grandpa, I...I don’t think I love Otabek.”

 

Despite how he fumbles initially, it’s the easiest thing to say. He had known for a while that they were not a conventional couple, but Yurio was not as in touch with his emotions as most. Yet when his grandfather had spoken, love so embedded and apparent in his voice, hearing it all laid out...devotion, sacrifice, a heart-wrenching kind of love that transcended death...Yurio knew that wasn’t what he felt for Otabek. That he couldn’t even conceive loving him that way. 

 

Nikolai remains quiet, humming softly to encourage Yurio to continue without adding any sort of input. Yurio picks at a stray thread at the edge of his pillowcase, frowning. It is finally out in the open, and it feels...okay. To finally admit that he didn’t think he loved his best friend. No...to  _ know _ that he didn’t love Otabek. 

 

“I mean I love him! I do. He’s a great skater, and he’s my best friend, but…” Yurio’s brows draw together harshly, frustration apparent on his face as he fights to find the right words. Nikolai smiles fondly, having seen just that look on his grandson’s face before, and interjects gruffly for him.

 

“But you don’t  _ love _ him. Romantically.”

 

Yurio’s shoulder droops like a marionette with its strings cut, and pushes a hand through his loose hair. 

 

“I feel so guilty, grandpa. I just don’t even  _ miss _ him that much, that’s...that’s not how it’s supposed to be, is it? It’s nothing like those stupid movies, there’s no fireworks there’s just...it’s comfortable, grandpa. We both changed a lot dating but I just want him as my  _ best friend. _ Does that make me a bad person?” Insecurity creeps into his voice, wavering plaintively through his vocals. 

 

“No, Yuri. Everyone dates, everyone tries to find the right person, but you can’t always find them immediately. Not everyone is made for each other. Otabek is a good man, and a good friend. It’s okay to confuse what type of love you have for him,” Nikolai consoles quietly. Yurio buries his face back into his pillow, a thousand thoughts buzzing under his skin like gnats. 

 

“I don’t know what to do, grandpa…”

 

Nikolai sighs, clearly yearning to actually be there for his grandson. With no parents and no grandmother, it fell to him to try and guide Yurio through the tangled web that was love. He didn’t have much experience with it, despite having raised Yurio’s mother. His beloved wife had still been alive then. But he wouldn’t let Yurio down, he had vowed long ago to protect and raise Yurio as well as he could. 

 

“Talk to him, Yuri. Be honest, even if it’s scary. But first, focus on your skating. Not everything is a race, my boy.”

 

A wry smile fell on Yurio’s lips, and he thanked every god he knew for bringing his grandfather into his life. 

 

“Thank you, grandpa.”

 

\------

 

Speaking to his grandfather had not awarded him with all the answers magically, unfortunately. But it  _ had _ quieted the storm in his head, the prickling of his skin, the lack of focus that had driven him away from practice in the first place. The next morning he’s at the rink early, skates laced and ready as Yakov enters the building. He’s not prepared to talk to Otabek about his revelation, but he’s ready for this. Until things are figured out, he intends to practice and devote himself to his programs. Life didn’t stop moving just because he was conflicted over a relationship, and he would embrace the emotions freely and incorporate them into his skating. This was growth at its finest, and he intended to harness it and win gold. He would face off against Yuuri in the Grand Prix for the third consecutive year no matter what. 

 

\------

 

The NHK Trophy was held in Japan every year, which led to Yurio immediately hassling Yakov endlessly until his coach relented and pushed Yurio’s flight back an extra day after the competition so he could visit Hasetsu. It was under the stipulation the Yurio had to practice with Yuuri at the Ice Castle, but Yurio doubted that would be any issue. He knew for a fact that Yurio would be visiting home as well during the competition, taking the opportunity while the competition was held in his home country. 

 

They fly out late, Yurio and Mila seated side by side. She falls asleep within minutes of leaving the ground, and Yurio smugly takes a picture of her and posts it to Instagram, shamelessly tagging her. She’ll probably kill him when she wakes up, but it’s so worth it. He his his headphones in, kicks back and lets his music start to lull him to sleep. He needs rest before the early morning start. 

 

Except it's not just Mila sitting next to him. 

 

Yurio had managed to ignore him entirely while boarding, but as soon as a hand reaches up and pulls out one of his headphones, Yurio is ready for a fight. He turns and glares at the culprit. 

 

Victor. 

 

“Don't fucking touch me,” he hisses under his breath, overly aware of Mila sleeping to his right. If he wakes her up not only will she eviscerate him as slowly and painfully as she could manage, but then she'd get involved in the fight that Yurio could feel boiling between himself and Victor. Unfortunately maybe Victor had finally found that previously lacking sense of timing. 

 

“Yurio please. I need to know how Yuuri’s doing.” Yurio has to give it to him, he's sincerely distressed. He's not joking, the lines at the edges of his eyes underscoring his desperation. But all it does is make Yurio even more furious, so he jerks sideways in his seat to face Victor and gets in his space, hand jerking the last headphone out of his ear. 

 

“No. You  _ want  _ to know how he's doing, because you  _ fucked up.  _ You realized he was your best friend, your biggest fan, your greatest supporter, even when he saw how childish and shitty you can be. You realized he would have given you the world  _ and  _ the fucking moon if you so much as asked, and now you finally fucking found a shred of unselfish heart in that massive egotistical  **void** in your chest and you  _ feel bad. _ ” Yurio jabs his finger hard into Victor’s solar plexus, wishing he was capable of screaming the way he wants to. The way Victor fucking deserves to have this speech delivered to him. 

 

“And I would rather eat my own fucking kidney than tell you how he is. You don't deserve how much he loved you and you deserve to feel terrible and lonely without him. But I know you'll try and be an air headed  _ asswipe _ and trmeny to hunt him down and talk to him before he's ready, so if you really want to know how he's doing, ask. I'll be the judge of what you deserve to know.” Yurio’s intense green eyes stare down the other man in the seat beside him, watching menacingly as he shrinks away in a rare expression of honest regret. 

 

Yurio may not be able to protect Yuuri from Victor’s stupidity forever, but he could sate Victor’s curiosity (or threaten him) enough to keep him away from Yuuri for a time. Feed him information that wouldn't infringe on Yuuri’s privacy. Even now, he could still protect Yuuri. The way he hadn't been able to before. 

 

Victor leans back into his seat, scrubs a hand over his face and sighs. But the questions still flow like he simply can't help himself, the simpering expression returning strongly enough to make Yurio scowl. 

 

“Is he happy? With Phichit? Is he still anxious? Is he taking care of himself? Are they uh...are they serious?” 

 

Yurio is genuinely blown away by the choice of questions, and can't help but stare incredulously at the stupid man beside him. 

 

“Are you kidding me, Victor? After playing with his emotions, after  _ breaking his heart,  _ you suddenly care about his relationship? What, realizing you fucked up by throwing him away?” The last part is snide and laced with sarcasm. Which is why Yurio is astounded to see Victor flinch and drop his eyes. 

 

Truly. He's speechless. 

 

“Yuri I know I screwed up. I don't know if he'd really give me another chance, or that I'd deserve it, but he was my best friend. I just want to know that he's okay.” 

 

Yurio stares at him, watches Victor drop his eyes, clearly uncomfortable beneath the younger skater’s scrutiny. Nonetheless it tells Yurio what he needs to know, even as he grinds his teeth and hisses angrily to himself, jerking back to sit right in his seat. 

 

“He's...happy. I think he needed time to figure out how to live and be in love without you but that Thai guy is his best friend, so I think he's finally finding his confidence. It's more than just skating for himself,” he murmurs, the clip of his voice softening as he recalls Yuuri’s smirking lips and sass, his laughter in Yurio’s ears as they spun on the dance floor. 

 

“He's still anxious but what do you expect? Him winning gold in France should be proof enough of how far he's come. And...I dunno if they're serious how would I know that? I don't think Phichit pays him enough attention sometimes. He can be an airhead just like you,” Yurio hisses beneath his breath, grumbling as he shifts in his seat. 

 

Victor starts chortling quietly to himself, which needles at Yurio until he turns and pays attention again. 

 

“What? What are you fucking laughing at?!” 

 

Victor shakes his head with a twisted smile that hurts Yurio to look at. Victor was still somewhat of a friend, and the wry twist to Victor’s mouth only made the dry amusement seem more brittle in his eyes. 

 

“You just...sound disappointed. He's easy to love, huh?”

 

Yurio recoils like he’s been slapped, torn between looking away in denial and staring helplessly at Victor. The older man turns and puts a hand on Yurio’s forearm, which goes momentarily ignored. 

 

“Maybe you should examine that jealousy,” Victor purrs, his joking defenses quickly returning as it became clear that Yurio wasn't going to say anything more about Yuuri. They all had their ways of protecting themselves. Yurio had his anger, Victor had his comedy. 

 

Yurio jerks his arm away from Victor’s touch, hating the flush that burns along his ears. 

 

“Don't fucking touch me old man,” he mutters, with far less vitriol than normal. His head feels like a tea kettle, screaming new thoughts and scenarios that he had been to stubborn and obtuse to consider. 

 

_ Loving  _ Yuuri? It was a stupid idea. 

 

Still, it couldn't be denied that Yurio fell asleep to the memory of Yuuri’s laughter and the tickle of long lashes brushing softly against his skin. 

 

\------

 

Yurio is half asleep as they wander through the disembarkation process. Luckily his leopard print luggage is noticeable, so he sits grumpily on top of it as he waits for the rest of the team to hunt for theirs. The black mask is comforting and warm, and Yurio’s eyes are drooping. It's ridiculously early, and he doesn't even want to look at his phone for fear of hating the world even more once he sees the time display. 

 

Therefore he is reasonably excused from how ignorant he is to the rest of the world when he hears his name screamed and barely registers it.  _ A fan?  _ It's the only groggy thought he can spare as he lifts his eyes, and there's Yuuri standing past the doors, eagerly toeing the ‘Do Not Cross’ line. He's waving and bouncing on his toes and Yurio’s heart pretty much quits. It's stupid and cute and it's four in the fucking morning and this idiot was standing red-cheeked and swaddled in scarves  _ waiting for him.  _

 

Yurio barely registers how he's rushing for the exit, overcome with frustrating fondness for this stupid, selfless man. 

 

Yuuri’s eyes are bright and expectant, but there's a hesitancy in his body as Yurio nears the line, clearly unsure if he should go in for a hug or not. Yurio takes the decision away from him, carelessly dropping his suitcase and wrapping Yuuri in a bear hug. 

 

Yuuri’s laughter is muffled through his scarves and Yurio’s shoulder, so Yurio lets his weight slump and smirks as Yuuri shrieks and tries to keep them standing. That would teach him. 

 

Mila bounds past the red line looking way too awake for 4am, a devious gleam in her eye and phone brandished like a weapon. She coos at them, and Yurio hefts his body, forcibly pushing Yuuri with his deadweight to shift them around to look at her. Lazily lifts an arm and pulls his mask down, Yuuri’s breathless laughter betraying him even as he tries uselessly to shove Yurio off. There's no point - Yurio is far taller and heavier, and it's way too amusing to watch him struggle.

 

“Get in line hag, he's gonna carry me to the hotel,” Yurio snarks with a smirk, letting his weight sink farther into Yuuri even as Mila pouts. 

 

“Aww, you can't hog him!” 

 

Yakov and Victor trail behind them, and Yurio frowns as Yuuri says a respectful hello to Yakov, then catches Victor’s eyes and drops his own. 

 

“Hello Victor,” he says quietly, then switches his focus to Mila taking pictures, whining and begging her not to send them to Phichit. Victor, on the other hand, still holds Yurio’s more than rapt attention. It's disgusting how Victor brightens into a ray of sunshine just from those two words, and Yurio can't help how his arms come forth to hide more of Yuuri from view, passing it off as adjusting more of his weight onto the other skater. 

 

Yakov finally orders Yurio off of Yuuri, not that Yurio listens to the old coot anyway. But he retrieves his luggage and saunters back to loom over Yuuri’s shoulder, feeling prickly with Victor so close. 

 

“We have rooms at the inn! My parents wanted to extend an invitation to either come for breakfast or stay however long you want. It's not as grand as the official hotel, but it's safe from reporters and we’re the only ones with an onsen!” Yuuri relays in a shy, cheerful manner towards Yakov, who looks astounded by his respect and the Katsuki hospitality. Yurio can't fight his grin when Yakov splutters over an agreement to at least breakfast, amused to see the man so out of sorts. He knocks his elbow against Yuuri and smirks. 

 

“You just signed yourself up for hell,” he chuckles.

 

\------

 

As breakfast dwindles out, talk of hotels and arrangements returns to the forefront. Yakov and Mila retreat with polite pleasantries, wanting to at least take advantage of the doposit they’d already put forth for their hotel rooms. Yurio doesn’t even bother - he’d intended to ask Yuuri to stay long before they’d landed, unwilling to share a room with Victor during the competition. The fact that Yuuri asked first is trivial at best, so he waves lazily as the pair retreat down the walkway towards the cab. When he hears the chipper undertone of Victor’s voice in the room adjacent to where they’d eaten, Yurio is reminded of who  _ else _ had decided to stay, and his lips turn viciously at the corners. 

 

“Excuse me, I’m going to do the dishes,” Yuuri speaks softly, and Yurio jerks his head back away from the door and looks up at him. Quickly unfolds his legs and stands, places a hand gently on Yuuri’s elbow even as he stares past the older man with hot ears. Reaches out and takes half the dishes Yuuri had expertly stacked in his arms, not letting Yuuri object. 

 

“I’ll help you,” he grumbles, eyes flickering tentatively towards the shorter man, catching the warm smile Yuuri directs his way. They wander into the kitchen together, and Yurio hogs the sink with a glare until Yuuri holds his hands up in defeat and grabs the drying rag instead. They work together in silence, Yurio scrubbing with a soaped up sponge before rinsing and handing the dishes to Yuuri, who dries them and places them in the appropriate cabinets. 

 

It’s not until Yuuri starts humming under his breath that Yurio turns his head, watching Yuuri. He’s...dancing. It’s not noticeable, a subtle thing. Slow movements that draw Yurio’s eyes down the length of Yuuri’s back, watching socked feet slide across the hardwood like Yuuri couldn’t bear to stand still. It’s here that Yurio remembers that Yuuri was practically born wearing ballet slippers, that he was a danseur long before he was a figure skater. It’s here that he can see why Victor was so enchanted, what he meant about Yuuri exuding music with his body. It’s beautiful. 

 

The plate slips through Yurio’s nerveless fingertips, clattering in the sink and startling Yuuri who turns and sees Yurio’s intense stare and immediately flushes.  _ Even here you have stage fright?  _ Yurio can’t help but think, hands still wet as he moves towards Yuuri, doesn’t even think about stopping. Yuuri seems just as frozen in counterpoint, embarrassment lingering in the twist of his smile, self-conscious. 

 

Yurio looms above him, feels tongue tied and stupid, unsure of what he’s doing but following his instincts. 

 

“Why did you stop?” It reveals too much, it’s too softly spoken, in the scant inches between them. Yuuri won’t look him in the eyes. 

 

“Because you’re watching,” Yuuri murmurs unsteadily in reply, like that makes all the sense in the world to him. Yurio’s heart jolts in his chest at the shy glances of cinnamon eyes, wonders why the “you’re” in Yuuri’s sentence seems to hold so much weight. 

 

“I always watch.” It’s the stupidest thing to say, and Yurio’s pulse is beating in his neck, frantic at an admission that stretches back so many years Yuuri can’t even begin to comprehend the depth of it. Yuuri’s breath hitches in his chest, and Yurio wants to die with the intensity of the unknown emotions in his chest. 

 

He leans forward, and his lips skim softly off the rouge of Yuuri’s cheek.

 

When he pulls away, Yuuri stares at him, lips parted and one hand creeping up to touch the place Yurio had kissed. In a sudden panic, Yurio lifts his hands and smears the water all over Yuuri’s neck. 

 

What just happened is forgotten as Yuuri races for the sink, dipping his hands in and chasing Yurio to seek his revenge.  Both of them are laughing.

 

\------

 

It’s harder to feel guilty when Phichit isn’t there, when Yurio doesn’t see the Thai skater hug and kiss Yuuri at the rinkside before he steps onto the ice. But he does see it now, and the guilt is like an iron stake to the heart. What is he doing? Even now he is too stubborn to admit anything, and when Otabek texts him good luck wishes, the guilt weighs heavy on his shoulders. He’s afraid it will ruin his performance, staring at his hands as he sits in the back room. 

 

Gentle hands touch his, and he nearly lifts them to smack the person away automatically until he registers smiling eyes and dark hair. 

 

“Katsudon? What the fuck you know you’re not supposed to be back here,” he hisses, eyes darting around for ISU personnel who will undoubtedly chase Yuuri away the moment they see him. Yuuri lifts one finger up in front of his lips in an exaggerated shushing motion. 

 

“I know Otabek isn’t here, but I wanted to wish you luck in person. I know it’s not a replacement, but…” Yuuri loses his words there, shrugging helplessly with a wavering smile. Expecting rejection, awaiting Yurio’s normal temperament even after how far he’d come with expressing himself. 

 

“You’ve grown so much, Yuri. I’m proud of you. And if you don’t go out there and give it your best, I will hold my gold medal from the Grand Prix against you  _ forever _ ,” Yuuri smirks, and Yurio can feel an answering challenge rise in his soul as his lips turn up at the corners. And though he has learned not to idolize people who were mortal and fallible, hearing Yuuri say he’s proud of Yurio, using the name they shared...it’s inspiring enough to break through the funk he’s feeling. 

 

Yurio stands, and tugs Yuuri up by his hands.

 

“I’ll see you on the podium, don’t think you can beat me that easily,” Yurio smirks. Yuuri beams like it’s the best news he’s heard all day.

 

“Hey! You can’t be back here!” 

 

Yuuri jolts and goes scampering off towards the exit, seeming startled and exhilarated by his own boldness as he runs laughing back to his seat. Yurio can’t stop grinning. 

 

\------

 

Yurio’s short program puts him in first place. Phichit chases him in a solid second, and Yurio wouldn’t be surprised if the man made it into the Final. His scores had been improving the past two years as he learned more quads, but Yurio has his goal set on reclaiming his gold from Yuuri. He’s almost looking forward to crushing Phichit in the Finale, though he doesn’t know why he’s taking it so personally. Truthfully he should be more concerned about Victor, who had placed second beneath Yuuri his first year back and bumped Yurio down into bronze. 

 

His worries fade, riding the high of gold as he, Phichit, Yuuri, and Victor return to the inn. Yurio is honestly baffled by how exuberant the Thai skater is, clearly expressing only excitement instead of bitterness being within arms length of the competitor that took gold ahead of him. It’s enough to raise his esteem for his competitor. 

 

As they go about their nightly routines, winding down after dinner, Yurio narrows his eyes as he watches Victor pause outside the kitchen. Where Yurio  _ knows _ Yuuri is. The older skater takes a deep breath and moves forward, engaging Yuuri in words too soft to hear properly. He takes a step forward, shamelessly intent on eavesdropping, when the shoji is slid open and Phichit steps out. They stare at each other in the hallway, and Yurio feels distinctly uncomfortable. Like this is more than just a happenstance encounter. 

 

He’s proven right when Phichit walks closer, intense dark eyes boring into Yurio in a way that makes him feel small, though he towers over the man physically. The hallway feels far too silent, even the awkward stutter-stop-mumble of Yuuri’s and Victor’s conversation not enough to distract him from the fact that Phichit has something on his mind. Something to say. To  _ Yurio. _ And damn him but all he can think of is the warmth of Yuuri’s cheek under his lips, like they’re somehow stained from Yuuri’s blush, a permanent mark that Phichit can see. An expression of his guilt. 

 

“He loves you.”

 

Yurio jerks like Phichit had slapped him, entirely baffled by the vagueness and even more confused by the conviction with which Phichit says it. 

 

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re sa-”

 

Phichit narrows his eyes and steps forward, and Yurio is ashamed to say he steps backward at the motion, wary. 

 

“Yuuri. He loves you.”

 

This time Yurio just swallows, mouth feeling like he’d shoved an entire bag of cotton balls in his mouth. Four words and his world is spinning. Four words he had never dared to entertain in his own head. Yet Phichit, Yuuri’s best friend, Yuuri’s  _ boyfriend,  _ says it like it’s nothing. Like the implications of that statement don’t matter somehow. But they fucking do matter. Because Yurio has a boyfriend, so does Yuuri, in fact Yuuri’s boyfriend is the one fucking saying it. 

 

Phichit must see how his mind is spinning, scents blood in the water and goes for the kill.

 

“And you love him too.”

 

Yurio’s mouth opens in automatic denial, his walls shattering and crumbling beneath Phichit’s words like they were nothing more than wet paper. Not the concrete he’d always believed them to be. Phichit scarcely even allows him time to breathe, much less conjure the words that would get him out of this situation. Stop the way that Phichit knocked down the barriers Yurio had put up to distinctly  _ not ever  _ think about that particular possibility. 

 

“I just want what’s best for him, and I think you might be it. So I will step away after the Grand Prix. I know he loves me, but I’m not blind either.” Phichit says it firmly, and Yurio is just...shaken. Completely baffled, eyes and lips parted in a way Lilia would kill him for, gawking at the shorter man. Shrinks further against the wall when Phichit steps forward with a menacing glare, stoicism turning so quickly into antagonism that Yurio’s head is spinning.

 

“But I swear, if you fuck it up? If you don’t take this chance, or you break his heart? I  _ will _ find out, and not only will I make your life hell, I will make sure your career is  _ ruined. _ ” It’s hissed through gritted teeth in Yurio’s face, and his own face seizes, twisting and trying to decide between the thousand emotions in his chest and which to portray on his face. 

 

Then Phichit turns and walks into the kitchen like nothing had happened, cheerily greeting his boyfriend with a coo, and Yurio can hear Yuuri’s embarrassed laughter through the walls. He slumps against the wall and tries to calm the spinning of his thoughts. 

 

_ Yuuri. He loves you.  _

 

Fuck.

 

**Fuck.**

 

\------

 

Yurio doesn’t make a decision that night about Yuuri, but it forces him to man up to a decision he’d already made but was too cowardly to initiate. 

 

With tentative fingers he opens his phone and steels himself, swallowing dry and wishing he had the nerves - the  _ words  _ \- necessary to make this easier. It rings, and a familiar soft, steady voice comes through the line, unconsciously easing some of the tension across Yurio’s neck and shoulders. 

 

“Yuri?”

 

“Ah...Beka, how are you?”

 

“Good. How are you?” Yurio can’t help his smile, presses his free hand to his face and marvels over how simple and good Otabek was. He loved him, truly. But his grandfather had been right - he didn’t love Otabek in the way that mattered. In the way that Otabek damn well  _ deserved.  _ Otabek was his best friend, which made this decision all the more important. Yurio loved Otabek enough to want to see Otabek receive the most perfect, beautiful kind of love. Wanted to witness the way Otabek would smile when he was deeply in love,  as fucking cheesy and ridiculous as that sounded, he wanted that,

 

Yurio couldn’t give him that. He was letting Otabek down as a best friend  _ and _ as a boyfriend. 

 

“I’m...not so good. Um I...Beka, you know you’re my friend right? My best friend.” It comes out on a mumble, still shy when admitting such a thing. 

 

Silence echoes from the other line, and then...laughter. Yurio freezes, one hand still tangled in his bangs that he’d been pushing back, the other tightening self-consciously around his phone. Was Otabek mocking him? The idea was too painful to entertain, so he let his mind run from it, instead focusing on the lull of Otabek’s breathing as he waited for a response.

 

“Ah, sorry Yuri. I just...are you breaking up with me?” Otabek’s voice was...surprisingly warm?

 

“I...what? I just...maybe?” Yurio throws himself backward onto the bed in frustration, covering his eyes helplessly with his forearm. Why couldn’t he say it? 

 

“I just don’t think I can love you like I should,” he finally whispers, like the volume somehow softens the impact of his words. The silence isn’t as long this time, and he can so easily envision Otabek’s small smile. The one that makes him dip his head like he’s smiling at the ground. 

 

“Yuri. I know.”

 

Okay, Yurio hadn’t expected  _ that. _

 

“...what?”

 

There’s another soft laugh on the other line. 

 

“Yuri,  _ I know.  _ I was...actually trying to think of a way to tell you myself. The distance doesn’t make things easier, but I just think we’re better as friends. I love you Yuri, just…” 

 

This time Yurio is the one who laughs, feeling a weight sliding off his shoulders, leaving him feeling high and giddy with relief. The rock of foundation that was Otabek’s friendship still grounding and tethering him. He hadn’t lost that. 

 

“Just not like  _ that? _ ”

 

They laugh together through the phone, and Yurio rolls over onto his stomach, already feeling better than he has in quite a while. Ever since he’d started doubting, ever since his eyes had started wandering, his heart taking a different path. One he still wasn’t quite ready to face, even after Phichit’s blunt words. But...soon. Soon he would be able to. 

 

They bid each other a quiet goodnight, exchanging soft promises that nothing would change between them. Yurio hangs up and feels something settle in his chest. He falls asleep smiling. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome again to the end of the chapter! I hope you enjoyed it - it's a whopping 18 pages! New record, guys! 
> 
> I did struggle a little with this one again, but only in a few places. And yes the cheese factor is rising, but don't worry. Seriously. The boys don't have it cut out THAT easily for them. Real life sucks and throws curveballs, communication is difficult, and these two are not nearly at the finish line yet. But I hope you'll stay with us until this story reaches it! 
> 
> As for my little notes about reasoning behind my choices: Nikolai is my favorite background character, and while I didn't want to create an entire backstory for Yurio, I really love their relationship and spent so much time perfecting it. I love that old man, and I want him to be happy forever. Also Yurio probably wouldn't have opened up to anyone else enough at this point to receive advice about something so intimate. AND WHAT DID Y'ALL THINK ABOUT FINALLY BRINGING VICTOR BACK IN? I know you guys were clamoring for it. And don't worry, next chapter will showcase exactly what conversation happened between Victor and Yuuri! So you'll see even more than what Victor revealed to Yurio on the flight. And Yurio does still care for Victor! I hope that came through as he relents and gives Victor what he needs to know. 
> 
> Also I'm obsessed with danseur-Yuuri, who deserves all the love in the world because he grew up in Minako's place and I need him dancing in the kitchen as many times as my fingers can write it. I'm similarly unapologetic about the ending, and y'all KNOW Phichit has blackmail on everyone and their mother. Also Yukipri's awesome PhichiYuu comic is amazing and you should check it out on tumblr, because I was mildly inspired by that and her take on a darker(?) Phichit. Also - don't worry, next chapter we'll see Yurio's FS program. His SP just wasn't necessary! 
> 
> Anyways leave a comment, a kudos, whatever you like! If you want visuals I was inspired by, go to the chapter notes at the top!


	8. Ambrosia -- Your Love is Reciprocated

Yuuri can't honestly say he wasn't expecting it.

 

From the moment his eyes meet the clear blues of Victor’s at the airport, he knows it's going to happen. It's not born from his natural proclivity towards anxiety and assuming the worst of every situation, or anything so omniscient as prediction. He reads it in the slope of Victor’s shoulders, the way his face lights up with a hope that's painful to witness when Yuuri quietly greets him. 

 

Even after all this time, Yuuri knows Victor like the back of his hand. 

 

Nonetheless he doesn't let himself dwell on it too much. Time and dedication make the anxiety he feels easier, but it's still an imperfect system. He'll never be rid of it, like a scar that never fades. Just as ugly and apparent as the day it first formed. But the way Yurio hangs on him, and Phichit’s eager ramblings as they load into the car...it's enough to quiet the flare of uncomfortable anticipation in his chest. 

 

Breakfast is a rambunctious affair, and Yuuri’s cheeks hurt from smiling so widely; there’s a flare of pride when the Russians collectively melt over his and his mother’s efforts. It's better than Detroit. Better than a cold apartment in early spring, with exhaustion heavy in his bones and competitions on the horizon that prevent him from going back to bed. In Detroit there had only been Phichit to remind him of better things, to punctuating a strict routine with brightness that he clings to desperately. Here, that brightness is overwhelming, and he simply drinks it in like a plant that’s been lacking sunlight. 

 

He's still caught in a haze of warmth and friendship as Mila and Yakov say their goodbyes, rising and collecting the dishes on autopilot more than anything. Even the excusal of his presence is rote, a familiar sequence of actions from too many years waiting tables in his teens. It's why he jolts as Yurio quickly stands and places a hand on his elbow, effectively making Yuuri still with scarcely any pressure or force behind his touch. Yuuri glances up at the embarrassed frown on Yurio's face and his chest squirms in delighted pleasure as they make their way into the kitchen. Yuuri doesn’t comment on Yurio’s accompaniment, afraid to scare him off in a fit of embarrassment. He wants to enjoy the time with him. 

 

Moving with Yurio is natural. Yuuri takes over drying as he knows where the dishes belong in their cupboards, leaving Yurio to the task of washing. It's as easy as working with his sister had been in childhood, and he finds a perfect rhythm where their hands brush trading plates and silverware, moving in and out of each other’s space like there are no boundaries to worry about. Only the distinctive shapes of the kitchen geography and their own bodies as they move around one another. 

 

It's why he feels safe enough letting himself slip away, as if he's the only one in the kitchen, letting his feet find the rhythm to the songs in his head. Yurio is too much a part of him to be a threat to Yuuri’s confidence any longer. 

 

A plate clatters loudly in the sink and the lyrics in his head falter like a scratched record, jerking him so swiftly back into the present that it feels like mental whiplash. Yurio looks just as stunned when Yuuri nervously turns to meet his gaze. It only encourages the embarrassed flush of his cheeks, the twitch of his unsure smile as Yurio strides towards him. Any other response immediately shuts down beneath the flatlining of his brain as Yurio’s cologne tickles at his nose, as he becomes far too well acquainted with the angle of Yurio’s cheeks as he keeps moving closer. 

 

Words have no place here in the scant inches between their bodies, and even coherent thoughts are slow to squeeze their way in. Any speech he tries to conjure die in his throat, inadequate and useless. Unnecessary. There are no words in any of the languages he knows that can possibly describe how he feels as Yurio stares down at him so intensely. Yuuri is suddenly intimately aware of the way each golden strand of hair frames Yurio’s chiseled features, the soft caress of warm breath on his cheeks, the way the fabric of Yurio’s shirt folds against his chest. His brown eyes shift downward, too afraid to keep contact with the seafoam green of the younger man’s, and too enchanted by every other small detail he never gets the chance to appreciate to convince himself to do so. 

 

“Why did you stop?” 

 

_ Because I don't know why starting felt so easy with you here. Because I'm scared. Because I've only ever danced for one person my entire life, and I shouldn't want to change that as badly as I do now.  _

 

“Because you're watching.” It's all that he can clumsily push off his tongue, confidence withering like untended flowers beneath the heat of Yurio’s stare. 

 

“I always watch.”

 

Yuuri shouldn't be able to feel the pounding of his own heart in the hollow of his throat, but he does. The words are weighted with sincerity, with revelations neither are prepared to witness or acknowledge yet. It's electrifying, terrifying, and foreign. It’s...tempting.

 

He had been invisible for so long.  _ So long.  _ And then Yurio came along with his fire and his strength, forcefully ripping every piece of armor Yuuri had surrounded himself with and throwing it to the ground, stripping him bare and bringing him into the spotlight. Yuuri would have expected that to be painful, to leave him open and raw, but somehow he’s not hurt by it, not weakened, just stunned. Yuuri had grown so used to being invisible off the ice that he didn't know what to say here and now, when he meets Yurio’s eyes and realizes that Yurio  _ sees him.  _ The gravity of that realization is too much to handle. 

 

_ If you see me, why are you still here? _

 

Yurio leans closer and Yuuri’s heart pounds, breath leaving him in quiet gasps.  _ Yurio must surely be able to hear it. _ He can't help the way his eyes flutter, the way he's frozen, anticipating something he  _ definitely  _ shouldn't be. Yurio’s lips brush warm and soft against his cheek, and Yuuri has to lock his knees lest he sink to the floor in a graceless heap. It's not what he'd been stupidly, sinfully hoping for. But it's still enough to knock him off balance. 

 

The intensity is out of place for such a simple action. Phichit kisses his cheeks all the time. So why was he getting goosebumps? Why did he feel so breathless? Why did a single touch hold such magnitude? 

 

The questions have no room to flourish and take hold, thoughts shattered by wet hands on his face and his own squeal of surprise. Yuuri still can't help but feel his stomach twist as they spray water all over the kitchen, enchanted by the mischievous grin on Yurio’s face, the joy that oozes from him. It's terrifying. 

 

\------

 

They meet back up at the official rink, and Yuuri waves goodbye as Yurio and Phichit make their way to the waiting area. He watches their backs until they disappear past the curtains, and reluctantly lets Minako guide him to their designated seats. 

 

Something still feels off, though. No matter how long he sits or how many routines go by, he can't focus on the scores or the programs like normal. He feels out of place. Geared up. 

 

Minako must grow tired of his fidgeting, as she eventually elbows him in the ribs and orders him to just  _ go _ already. 

 

Yuuri doesn't bothering trying to dissect how she knows what's on his mind, he just gets up and walks swiftly away. Finally realizing the reason behind the itch beneath his skin and seeking it out. 

 

Getting in is easy. He knows these events, their generic setups and back rooms, from hundreds of competitions before. He's too well known as a skater that the glazed eyes of the guards don't even blink as he pushes through the curtains into the hallway. Walking like he's meant to be there, when he most certainly is not. 

 

Yuuri doesn't  _ do _ this. He doesn't bend the rules very often, and outright breaking them is almost unthinkable. But he can't make himself stop. He slips in through the door and his pounding heart calms as his eyes navigate automatically through the crowd of colorful jackets to find Yurio. At least his gut feeling had been right - he was needed here, somehow. The pinch of Yurio’s face, in a rare display of unease and uncertainty, is enough to settle his nerves and reinforce the reasoning behind his little breaking and entering. 

 

As he kneels with Yurio’s hands in his own, watches the competitive fire in those seafoam eyes kindle and catch because of  _ him _ , Yuuri wonders what changed in himself. Can't help the laughter that bubbles nervously between his teeth as he jogs away from the organizer who inevitably catches him, unafraid of the consequences for once in his life. When he looks over his shoulder, Yurio is smiling. 

 

That's all that matters in the end. 

 

\------

 

The night winds down when they return to Hasetsu, the sleepy town yawning and clinging with its quiet atmosphere to the vibrancy of its new visitors, begging them to slow down, to breathe, to rest. Influencing them with the aura of the little town. Yuuri smiles to himself as he directs each guest to their room but then tries not to feel the guilt that stabs him in the stomach and then  _ twists _ when Phichit kisses him a soft goodnight as he retires. He hadn't told Phichit about the kiss (on the  _ cheek,  _ it was nothing, it wasn't a big  _ deal,  _ so there was clearly no reason to tell him) and he hadn't snuck backstage to encourage his boyfriend either. Had ushered Phichit to the ice with the normal amount of affection and encouragement from the rinkside. 

 

What's wrong with him? Why is he entertaining the thought of...of  _ more?  _ He can't even word the acknowledgement in the sanctity of his own mind. 

 

Being with Yurio. In any way. 

 

He's pacing the kitchen, idly sipping at a glass of water when he registers soft footsteps and glances up. 

 

Victor hesitates in the doorway, and Yuuri freezes. A droplet of condensation slides down his wrist as they stare at one another. Yuuri can't even bring himself to wipe it away or lift the cup to quench his suddenly dry throat. Even as the water tickles and chills his skin, he's frozen. Understanding the gravity of this meeting before any words are exchanged. 

 

Victor makes the first move as he walks into the kitchen, his normal air of confidence shattered in favor of something softer, something almost pious. Victor is projecting so loudly that Yuuri sardonically wonders when someone else will poke their head out of one of the rooms to investigate. In contrast, the physical silence between them is stifling. 

 

Yuuri considers running away like a coward, mumbling some half-composed excuse that Victor wouldn't buy but would undoubtedly respect, pushing this meeting to a vague future date. Most of those feelings come from his anxiety that a simple conversation will turn into something far worse, but as he acknowledges the dark circles hiding beneath concealer, the apologetic slump of Victor’s proud shoulders, Yuuri pities him. So he makes himself wait, even though his fight or flight instincts lean heavily to the latter side. Their silence had gone on long enough and this...this had to happen sometime, he thinks; perhaps it was better now than later. 

 

Though Yuuri couldn't forgive and forget, he was at least willing to move on. He  _ needed _ to. His shoulders wouldn't bear the weight of it much longer. 

 

Victor must read the acquiescence in his body language, because he steps closer across the hardwood floors and takes a deep breath. Yuuri can't help the spasm of ridiculous amusement at the fact that now he's the one in charge, being chased after, when he'd been doing the chasing for so long. 

 

“Hi Yuuri,” Victor says meekly, and it's astonishing to see the buoyant, collected man so timid and unsure of himself. It's almost a power trip for Yuuri, to know his absence and cold shoulder had turned Victor into the man who stood before him. He stands by his decisions, but as a person he can't help the twinge of guilt in his heart. 

 

“Hi Victor,” he murmurs quietly in response. Truly he doesn't even know what to say, how to go about bringing up such a depressing topic. 

 

“I...I wanted to say that I'm sorry Yuuri. I'm  _ so  _ sorry for what I did and said. Drinking shouldn't be my excuse, because I...I knew, the whole time, how you felt. And I know it was manipulative, but I just wanted  _ you _ to be the best you could be. It wasn't about impressing other people or surprising them. Well...at first maybe it was,” and Victor’s frown deepens as Yuuri flinches a little at that particular confession. At the knowledge that Victor had been intent on using him for his own gain. No matter how temporary, it was a fact that Victor hadn't cared for him at all at first. And he has to live with that now. 

 

“But you became my best friend. You taught me so much. How to be  _ Victor _ not Victor Nikiforov. How to love skating again. How to fold laundry. How to hold chopsticks,” and they both laugh at that, ignoring the shared wetness that clings to their lashes. Yuuri had changed Victor so much, and Victor just wanted him to  _ see  _ that. Big or small, Yuuri had taught Victor so many important things, and it was why Victor clearly wasn't going to give up. Not when he finally had Yuuri’s attention. 

 

“It was so much more than a comeback after that. I wanted you to  _ win _ . I knew you could since the moment I saw your video. And I know I went the wrong way around it, by leading you on and hurting you...I just didn't see. You're the only person I really care about Yuuri, I didn't know how to care for you in a way that wasn't related to competition,” Victor admits, and what hurts more than dredging up the circumstances is the fact that Yuuri can so plainly see and understand how Victor had so easily fucked up. 

 

Yakov was his coach, Yurio was someone to mentor, and his rinkmates were competitors. Victor didn't know how to selflessly push someone to the top, couldn't separate the two in his mind enough to draw a distinctive line. He'd manipulated Yuuri and led him on, because he'd believed Yuuri could find enough muse and strength in loving Victor to achieve the goals Victor had wanted so badly for Yuuri to achieve. 

 

It was a hard pill to swallow, but the honesty was still enough to brush some of the weight off his shoulders. 

 

Victor couldn't conceal the hopeful glint in his eyes, and Yuuri couldn't help but muse on the fact that even while admitting to his own faults, Victor was still astonishingly childish. Expecting Yuuri to forgive so easily, to have things return to normal just because he apologized. 

 

Yuuri was just too tired. There was no joy in the distance between them, no point in seeking petty revenge when acceptance was so easy to award. 

 

“I...I accept your apology, Victor. I can see how you'd think that way, I do, but...I can't just forget it. I loved you before I even knew what love really was. I idolized you, and I cared for you even when I realized how flawed and human you were. I wanted you to be free to be who you are, I never wanted you to  _ pretend _ to be interested in me. It was my own naivety that made it all so convincing,” Yuuri couldn't help but laugh bitterly at his own stupidity. As if Victor could have truly loved him. 

 

As if sensing his thoughts Victor stood taller and moved closer, eyes turned down at the corners, a familiar look of disapproval creasing the lines of his face. Strong hands grip Yuuri’s shoulders and force their eyes to meet. 

 

“You're not stupid, Yuuri. So many people love you, for good reason. It was selfish of me to do what I did. I...I wanted to keep you, to have you as mine without changing how I felt, or how we were around one another. You're so worthy of being loved,  _ I'm _ the one who lost out, Yuuri.” 

 

It's a stunning statement, one Yuuri can't help but balk and gawk at. It was simply preposterous.  _ Him?  _ Being desirable? So desirable that Victor had led him on instead of letting him go, because he was desperate to keep Yuuri at his side? But why? Why did they want him around so badly? He was nowhere near their level! He'd never had friends, he wasn't sure how to feel about all these people suddenly caring for him and wanting him around. 

 

“Yuuri, you have so many people who love you. And you deserve to be with them instead of me. But...I can't stand to not have you in my life. Please, Yuuri. It's unfair of me to play off the infinite kindness in your heart, but I must. Can you forgive me? Enough to be friends again?” Victor’s eyes desperately searched Yuuri’s, seeking an answer to the plight he found himself in. 

 

Yuuri wavers, reaching his hands up to gently cover Victor’s where they still rest on his shoulders. Drops his eyes to the floor and tries to think beyond the emotions that cloud his judgment. For too long he'd thought with his heart, and it had led to many bruises and disappointments. But the answer was still the same. 

 

“I forgive you, Victor. I can't say it will be the same as it was, not for a long time but...I will always be your friend.”

 

Victor’s breath shakes as he hauls Yuuri in for a hug, trying not to pay too close attention to the stiff angles of Yuuri’s body. Things wouldn't be the same. But Victor was ready to learn. Yuuri didn't deserve to be hurt by Victor a second time. 

 

\------

 

Yuuri retreats to the Ice Castle after his encounter with Victor. 

 

Perhaps he's predictable, but he tells himself he can't get out of shape just because he'd cinched his entrance to the Grand Prix. In reality, it's just that it's the one place he feels he can turn to without judgment or pressure. 

 

There were no classes on the ice to bar his entry, the schedule clear with holidays and exams. He waves a vacant hello to Takeshi at the counter and lets himself through the doors with the key they'd given him long ago. 

 

The ice is unmarred and welcoming, shining beneath the harsh fluorescent lights overhead. Beckoning. Promising relief and freedom. An escape from the conflict in his head. 

 

It seems to take an eternity to lace his skates, tension mounting until he feels like he's shaking out of his skin. Yuuri rushes onto the ice, the door banging off the rink boards as his blades find the ice and he's free. 

 

Panting breaths slow as he makes long circles around the perimeter, old figures from schooling, foundational forms that remind him of better days. When the only goal he had was earning his next ribbon or badge from the ISU, or figuring out his lunge without falling on his face. It's incredible how far he's come, really. The sense of failure from coming in sixth at his first Grand Prix had overwhelmed the bigger picture: that he was the sixth top skater in the world. It's boggling, he thinks as he glides backward, entirely lost in thought. And here he was, intent on defending his title in his third Grand Prix. Setting his sights on Worlds. 

 

So why did he still feel so conflicted?

 

He doesn't try any jumps, lets the music in his head guide his feet, throwing in bits of choreography where his head and heart need it most. It flows through him, cleansing, until he finds enough peace to face what he needs to. The dark problems that lingered at the edges of his thoughts, demanding attention. So he finally lets his guards down, and lets them wash over him. Finally slow enough to parse through instead of raining relentlessly down in a deluge of overwhelming information. 

 

So, Victor. 

 

Victor had apologized, had owned up to the devastation he'd caused with a few slurred words on Yuuri’s happiest night. Was it enough? Yuuri was a forgiving person, but he had also been blessed to have not been hurt so deeply very often in his life. Forgiveness - real forgiveness - for once did not seem easily within reach. But Victor had asked for it. To be Yuuri’s friend once more. Which led to even more convoluted thoughts. 

 

Was Yuuri truly over him? 

 

He skates aimlessly with this one thought in his head far longer than its predecessors. Until he finally feels confident deciding on it. 

 

Yes. Maybe not over Victor as a person, but as the enchanting champion Yuuri had idolized since before he knew the word. Because Victor was so much more. So terribly, humanly  _ flawed _ that Yuuri did not find him so blinding, so dazzling anymore. It didn't mean that he didn't miss  _ Victor _ , as a person, but it was easier to move on when he'd only known Victor intimately for a year. A year was easier to stomach than a lifetime, no matter the year in question.

 

He'd still loved him, though, in a way that had bound itself into the fibre of his heart like an old scar. He’d loved those flaws and habits more than he could say. He'd been swept up in the current of emotion, drowning in the new world Victor had opened his eyes to. When he’d finally hit rock bottom, nothing had been spared in the wreckage. 

 

He really had spent too long being invisible. Victor had finally seen him, someone Yuuri already loved and idolized, and he'd been so blinded by the brilliance of the man’s attention that when the sunlight finally vanished, all he was left with was the ache behind his eyes and remnants of what could have been each time he blinked. 

 

Yet...Yuuri had moved on. And maybe, like scar tissue or bones healed from old breaks, he’d be stronger for it.

 

He didn’t know when it had happened. He didn’t wake up one day knowing he was over Victor. Didn’t even know until now, on the ice, realizing he could think of Victor without the ache in his heart that he’d grown so used to. It’s...stunning, really. Like lifting your foot for another stair only to find nothing beneath your heel when you go to step. A second of terror and then ground beneath you; steadying you, giving you balance. 

 

So then why did he still feel so unsatisfied? Phichit was undoubtedly an amazing boyfriend, and Yuuri loved him. What was there to miss? To long for?

 

The ghost of a kiss presses against his cheek as if mocking that particular train of thought, and Yuuri’s face burns brighter, the chill against his cheeks flimsy in comparison to the power of his own thoughts. He has to stop and hold onto the wall, folding his arms across the top and resting his hot forehead against the cold surface of the board. 

 

What is his  _ problem? _

 

He loves Phichit. In the sincerest form capable of the emotion, and in so many ways ranging from platonic to romantic. Why was he yearning for something -  _ someone  _ \- else? He feels sick with the conflicting emotions roiling in his stomach; excitement over the gentle kiss, and self-hatred for his own wandering heart. 

 

Like fate is plucking the strings of his life with personal malevolent glee, when he turns away from the wall, he comes face to face with Yurio who is gliding onto the ice at the other end. 

 

“Yura?” The diminutive falls far too naturally from his lips, confusion embedded in the short syllable. Yurio huffs to himself, black blades glinting beneath the glare of the lights as he slows to a stop in front of Yuuri. 

 

“You were gone too long,” Yurio grumbles defensively, irritably jerking the zipper of his coat halfway up, like he doesn’t want to admit to being worried or lonely or -- or whichever emotion had driven him to seek out Yuuri at the rink.

 

Yuuri just shrugs to himself and pushes off away from the wall and back to the ice, Yurio following him at a sedate pace as they circle the rink together in easy silence. It’s even more relaxing than his prior solitude, as they weave in and out of each other’s space, going wherever their blades take them but never straying far from each other. Not taking advantage of the size of the rink to practice or find their own space. 

 

Yuuri half expects Yurio to do it, but as the minutes tick by and he remains by Yuuri’s side, Yuuri relaxes and begins to play a little game of follow the leader. He can't help it, not when he's so curious about why Yurio trails him and copies him so consistently.  _ Curiosity killed the cat, Yuuri. _

 

Figure eights turn into backwards circles and crossovers, trading positions and following the new leader as they skate aimlessly around the rink. 

 

Except it’s Yurio, so of course things quickly begin to escalate. 

 

It starts with skating too close, brushing shoulders (when did Yurio get so broad?) and bumping hips in a way that is far too purposeful for Yuuri to let it go. And there’s a reason why rink staff ban speed skating and tag, but they’re world class skaters and they’re stupid and captured by an uninhibited moment. There’s nobody but them in the rink and soon they’re all but flying. 

 

In the whole world, with all its wonders and glories, nothing seems to matter as much to them now as chasing each other around the rink at dizzying speeds. Even so, the touch of their hands tagging the other is gentle, and their cheeks are flushed around grinning teeth. Yuuri doesn’t think he’s ever seen Yurio so playful and energetic before. So comfortable and unguarded. Can scarcely believe he's the reason why. 

 

He cuts across the ice, chasing Yurio, the empty arena echoing with their loud laughter. 

 

Except Yurio spins on his skates and intercepts Yuuri, who doesn’t have time to do much more than try to slow down before they’re crashing into each other. They both make grunting noises of surprise as the breath is punched out of them, and Yuuri instinctively clutches at Yurio as the world firmly reminds him that gravity certainly exists. It brings back sense memories of when he’d first started skating, and instinct told you to cling to your neighbor even if you always ended up bringing them down with you. 

 

Yurio flails backwards, catching himself hard on the rinkboard and barely supporting Yuuri enough that they don’t go crashing down in a tangle of limbs and certain injury. Yuuri still ends up with his face smashed gracelessly against Yurio’s chest, one hand gripping the back of Yurio’s jacket and the other holding on for dear life at his hip. Yurio’s elbow is pressing into the top of the rinkboard to keep them up, both of their knees bent and free arm wrapped tightly around the back of Yuuri’s shoulders, effectively dragging Yuuri onto his chest to try and keep them somewhat on their skates.

 

“What the fuck,” Yuuri whispers, dazed by the near fall, and Yurio  _ laughs.  _ It startles out of him like he wasn’t even anticipating it, and Yuuri blushes at the curse that still buzzes guiltily on his tongue. Shifts and tries to fully regain his skates beneath him now that the world isn't spinning, but -

 

Yurio isn’t letting go. 

 

Yuuri’s heart pounds instantly, already beginning to feel overwhelmed. First the kiss on the cheek, then his traitorous thoughts, now this? He can feel every muscle (and  _ fuck _ but Yurio certainly has quite a few these days) and is pleasantly drowning in the faint remains of the same cologne from earlier. Yuuri doesn’t want to lift his eyes any higher than the blue and red of Yurio’s jacket, but Yurio whispers his name in a strained tone and he can’t help it after that.

 

They both readjust so they’re not straining to stay upright, and yet neither fully move away for a few long seconds. Yurio’s arm is still snug even as it naturally drops lower towards the center of Yuuri’s back, keeping him close. Yuuri hates that he isn’t innocent either, fingers splayed wide across Yurio’s back like he can possibly encompass the entirety of the broad expanse beneath his palm. Greedy, proprietary, keeping himself against Yurio as surely as the other man is holding him in return. Clearly his body has no issues with keeping them close despite the turmoil in his thoughts. Though even those seem muted beneath the weight of their locked eyes.  

 

Yurio finally blushes as a frown pulls at his lips, jerking his head to the side away from Yuuri like he suddenly can't stand the sight of him staring dazedly up at him. Something rash takes hold of Yuuri, something heady and irritated at the entire situation, and he stands on his toepicks to press a swift kiss to Yurio’s cheek. He wouldn't be the only one conflicted, and Yuuri was petty enough to want some sort of misconstrued revenge. 

 

Reality slaps back just as quickly, and he moves to swiftly skate backward out of the embrace to try and play it off somehow. Already flagellating himself for his own stupidity. Yurio garbles a surprised noise and pulls him back in stubbornly, lifting Yuuri off the ground while the Japanese man lets out a surprised noise and wriggles in his grasp. 

 

“I’m going to drop you!” Yurio threatens, but Yuuri knows it’s empty at best. Still, he stops fighting and relaxes against Yurio’s shoulder, because he  _ really  _ doesn't want to make this any harder and end up dropped on his ass. 

 

“Trying to one up me, who do you think you are stupid katsudon,” Yurio grumbles, skating around and hoisting Yuuri more onto his shoulder. Surprisingly, Yuuri isn’t afraid. Even though it would definitely hurt to be dropped and he isn't wriggling in order to prevent that, he's not afraid that Yurio will truly drop him. Simply incapable of caring in that moment as Yurio skates them to the open exit. 

 

“Maybe you should up your game,” Yuuri mocks in a nasally imitation of Yurio’s voice. The Russian makes an offended noise and jostles Yuuri on his shoulder, making the skater shout and cling to him instinctively. Yurio makes another noise of triumph, and Yuuri wonders how much nonverbal communication Otabek had rubbed off on him. 

 

Yurio sets him down on the rubber mat floor outside the rink, and Yuuri smirks as he puts his skate guards on. Emboldened by his time alone on the ice, and the childish games he’d played with Yurio. 

 

They walk out teasing each other, shoving their shoulders together and cheeks flushed from the cold. Yuuri feels like he’s breathing helium, floating along the pavement with his worries left behind, embedded in the torn up ice they’d left in their wake. 

 

\------

 

The guilt strikes hard when he’s alone in his bed, his mother’s teasing keeping Phichit to his own room. The playfulness that had kept it at bay wears off like adrenaline seeping out of his pores, and he's left with his own self-hatred and doubt. 

 

What had he done? What would Phichit think? Oh god, he was the worst boyfriend ever, and he definitely didn’t deserve Phichit’s infallible love. Not when being around Yurio was like white noise, washing away any of the invasive thoughts or sounds that tried to capture his attention. Not when he had looked up at Yurio and wanted to kiss him so badly. How could he think that? How could he spend an entire day doing stupid, childish things with Yurio at the rink and not once wish for his boyfriend to be there with them? He was as good as a cheater, and the intimate awareness of his own deceit claws at his chest until he slumps to the side and lets the panic consume him. He deserves it. He deserves all of it for ever thinking of Yurio - who was  _ dating Otabek  _ \- like that. Especially when  _ he _ was dating Phichit. 

 

Yuuri’s breaths come shallow and fast, dragging his pillow to his chest and shoving his face into it like it could hide him from the doubts in his head and the guilt in his heart. His tears burn down his face as his internal thoughts scream abuse, threat burning with his hyperventilation. 

 

The shoji slides open quietly, and Yuuri can scarcely hear it over the hiccuping of his own breaths, the panic that drags at his brain like hot tar as it scalds through his nervous system. It’s a physical pain that only he can feel and understand, but it hurts all the same. 

 

A gentle hand touches his shoulder, and Yuuri jerks beneath its unexpected weight. It doesn’t retreat despite his reaction to it, and he shakes apart beneath the comforting touch. Lets the silent tears evolve into wracking sobs muffled by his pillow, until whoever it is beside him puts a knee onto the bed and slowly begins to rub his back. Yuuri’s anxiety can't take the mystery of who it is any longer. Finally shifts the pillow away from his face to take a gasping breath, like he’s coming up for air from beneath the oppressive weight of water all around.  _ Drowning. Drowning. Please help me.  _

 

Seeing Yurio almost makes it worse. Why is he here? Seeing Yuuri, once again, at his weakest? How had he known, why had he come? When his head was already full with grief and despair over his feelings for Yurio, fate deposited the younger man directly at his side in his worst moment. 

 

The questions buzz like hornets in his head, until he wants to scream and claw his hair out to get it to  _ stop stop stop please stop.  _ Shoves his hands to rake against his scalp, impulse control ruined. Yurio pushes him gently over and crawls into Yuuri’s bed without hesitation at the violent acting, gently unwinding Yuuri’s hands from where they tug helplessly at raven dark tresses. Laces their fingers together and squeezes firmly. It’s such a small motion, but it feels like Yurio is holding him together by his hands. Sealing the seams that crack open and leak as Yuuri buckles beneath the pressure inside. 

 

“It’s okay, it's alright,” Yurio murmurs against his forehead. It feels more intimate in the dark of his room, where daylight can’t creep in and reveal the ugliness of Yuuri’s unfaithfulness to his own crying eyes. 

 

“I’m right here.”

 

Yuuri squeezes helplessly at Yurio’s hands, releasing one to grip at Yurio’s tanktop and drag him closer until they’re tangled together. Indiscernible where one man ends and the other begins.

 

He needs the physical comfort more than he needs to get away from the physical reminder of his own divergent feelings. 

 

Yurio drapes his free arm complacently around Yuuri, draws him close and shushes him gently with each hiccuping sob that he hears. Gentle, nonsensical platitudes, tone far more important than meaning. There’s an awkward hesitance to his actions, loudly projecting the fact that Yurio doesn’t know how to handle the situation. Shouted words and insults don’t help here, even if he hadn’t abandoned them months ago. But Yurio stays. He is trying. He is learning. His uncertainty and inexperience are nothing compared to the impulse to comfort, the need to shelter. Even if it's difficult to shield Yuuri from himself. 

 

They hang on to one another through the worst of his attack. Until Yuuri’s tears slow and his breaths don’t rattle like death and decay in his chest, where he tallies the fight he has won into the linings of his marked ribcage. A memorial he will keep until he dies, as proof of his continued fight against the unfairness of the world. 

 

Yurio leans in and gently brushes lips and fingers across tearstained cheeks, letting Yuuri’s feeble hands push him away when the reminders become too much to bear. Respecting the request for space more than the physical presence of strength that is long gone from Yuuri’s body. 

 

“Why do you do this to me?” his voice wavers in the dark, heartbroken, or just plain old broken maybe. Laying blame where it doesn't belong, wondering why Yurio has such control over his traitorous heart. He pushes his hand flat to Yurio’s chest like he's considering shoving him away but can't, and tries not to focus on the unbearable knowledge of the fact that Yurio’s heart is racing beneath his palm.  

 

“I…” silence follows in the gulp of Yurio’s throat, like he’s choking on an answer that Yuuri can already hear ringing in his ears. But saying it makes it real, and neither of them have that kind of courage, even in the dark in the middle of the night where nobody but them will know. Where things can be forgotten and excused. Even here they are not ready. Not yet. But soon, maybe. 

 

“Go to sleep, Yuuri.” It’s scarcely a murmur in Yuuri’s ears, and a part of him wants to fight against the quiet command. Wants to demand that answer, even if he can taste each word on his own tongue so surely that he could kiss Yurio and catch the lingering sensation of the edges of that sentence on the younger man’s tongue. Instead he withdraws, lets it fade from the edges of his mind, and instead focuses on the tickle of Yurio’s loose hair against his neck and cheeks. Squeezes the pair of hands still intertwined and lets one last tear slide down the bridge of his nose. 

 

“Why do you always find me like this?” It’s spoken bitterly, recalling years prior; an empty bathroom, the clasp of his fingers over his lips to hold in the sounds of his own despair. Yurio’s threats, his passion and anger that had gentled slowly but surely with each month that went by. Until here he was, in Yuuri’s bed, tracing idle shapes across his spine. So very different from the teenager Yuuri had known. 

 

“ _ Sleep _ , Yuuri.” 

 

There will be no answers to be found here. Not tonight. 

 

Outside in the hallway, Phichit smiles to himself, a tinge of sadness and relief, perhaps even hope, lingering on the edges of his lips. 

 

\------

 

When Yuuri awakes, he thinks for a moment that he’s with Phichit. It’s an instinctual thing, or perhaps habitual is the right word. Who else would he be tangled up with in bed, groggy and drained in the morning? 

 

Until he opens his eyes and finds skin far too light for his boyfriend. Long, tangled blonde hair across a very bare shoulder. For a moment he can’t breathe, guilt resurfacing like a creature from the deep to swallow him whole.

 

“You’re thinking so fucking loudly,” Yurio grumbles, and Yuuri feels it vibrate through his chest, where his cheek still rests. Sometimes it’s weird to hear Yurio’s deeper voice, but it’s fitting as he grows up and out into a familiar stranger. The embarrassment and the butterflies return - had Yurio been watching him sleep?

 

“Sorry that I woke up after a panic attack to find you in my bed,” Yuuri snaps, but it’s still quiet. Tempered by his natural personality. Nonetheless it still raises a little snicker from Yurio, who appreciated any and all sass Yuuri summoned from the confident depths of his being. It was like a kitten trying to be fierce, so it wasn't surprising that Yurio found it so endearing. 

 

“Get up and make me breakfast,” Yurio demands instead, poking a finger into Yuuri’s cheek annoyingly while the older man tries to swat him away. What a menace, Yuuri thinks to himself with a tired frown. Why couldn’t he just sleep some more?

 

Yurio, on the outside of the bed, drags Yuuri onto his chest, rolls, and casually dumps him onto the floor. 

 

The rest of the inn gets woken up by Yuuri’s yelling. 

 

\------

 

Phichit somehow corners him first, which Yuuri finds...surprising, to say the least. Especially when he'd been intent on sitting down and talking with his boyfriend after the revelations the previous day had brought. Phichit had ushered him back into his room immediately after breakfast. 

 

“I’m the one who told Yurio you were having an attack last night,” he murmurs quietly as they sit cross legged facing each other on Yuuri’s bed. There was no way Phichit didn't know what had happened once he saw Yuuri’s tousled hair and long stare at breakfast. He knew exactly what Yuuri had to be thinking, and hated himself for thinking he could have put it off until after the Final. The chemistry between the two was too strong, and it wasn’t fair to leave Yuuri in the dark. Not when Yurio didn’t have the same issues of guilt with his breakup. Which come to think of it, Yuuri didn't even know about. 

 

Yuuri just stares dumbly at him at the admission, clearly not understanding  _ why _ . 

 

Phichit grabs his hands gently and idly kisses Yuuri’s fingertips, wondering how much longer he can do this with Yuuri. Yurio certainly seemed to be the possessive type. But Phichit had been here first, way back when Yuuri had first arrived in Detroit. Phichit would always be Yuuri’s first where it counted, where it mattered. Yurio couldn’t take that. And even if Phichit had his intentions to step back, it didn't mean he didn't love Yuuri just as much. 

 

“Yuuri. You love him. Or you have very, very strong feelings for him. And I know that, and I just want you to be  _ happy _ , Yuuri. He wanted to help you last night, and I knew that you needed him instead of me.” Hands squeeze together, Phichit gently but firmly talking over Yuuri as he tries to open his mouth and protest a truth they both know. 

 

“I wanted to tell you after the Final, but I can’t. You two need to figure things out now that he’s single.” Phichit couldn't help the amused glance as Yuuri coughed, taken by surprise by that sudden Piece of information. Maybe even letting go of some of the guilt he had been feeling. 

 

“Maybe it won’t go anywhere for a while, but…” Phichit grows frustrated here. This wasn't his thing, being eloquent and concise. Yuuri was the one who had a way with words. But he had to try if only for the sake of Yuuri’s happiness. 

 

“Yuuri, I love you. But I’m your best friend  _ first.  _ And I want you to go after what makes you really happy. And Yuri makes you happy.”

 

Yuuri’s lips tremble uncertainly, eyes wet but refraining from tears. It’s a lot to absorb all at once, but Phichit knew Yuuri would accept nothing less than full-frontal honesty. Phichit can’t help but lean in and gently kiss Yuuri’s forehead, lingering. 

 

“Is it because of me?” Yuuri’s meek voice wavers, thick with uncertainty. Neither need to say the words to understand what’s happening here - the end to something beautiful, but one that would not cause pain. The objections would come later, the assurances that  _ Phichit _ made him happy too, but Yuuri’s lack of self confidence was stronger. It hurts to hear. Phichit makes a soft noise of comfort and lifts his hands to Yuuri’s cheeks, kissing his forehead a second time. 

 

“No, no, Yuuri. You are beautiful, and amazing, and being your boyfriend has been an honor. But as your best friend - not your boyfriend - I need to see you with someone who loves you like you deserve.” Yuuri’s mouth opens once more to refute that, taking the words as a slight against Phichit’s love as a boyfriend. The Thai man chuckles and presses a finger over Yuuri’s lips. A playful motion that contrasts with the softness of his eyes. 

 

“I will never stop loving you, you cutie, but you have a hunk out there who feels the same. Who not only wants to give you the world and the moon, but who would probably fight anybody in his way of that goal,” Phichit laughs with a wink, feeling triumphant as Yuuri sputters a reluctant wet laugh and finally smiles. They come together into a tight hug without any further exchange of words, falling easily into one another. Like puzzle pieces. Always tied together, even if not by romance. This wouldn't change anything. Not really. 

 

“I don’t know if I can be ready this soon. I don't even think he feels that way. But...thank you, Phichit. You are the best friend and boyfriend I could ever have,” Yuuri whispers into the crook of Phichit’s shoulder, the guilt finally retreating a little. Enough for him to breathe.

 

Baby steps. 

 

Phichit holds him closer, and they don’t emerge from Yuuri’s room for a few hours more. It wasn’t a goodbye, but a private celebration between the two of them, acknowledging a bittersweet end to something beautiful. 

 

\------

 

Yuuri doesn't reach out to those gathered around the table that night. He isn't ready for things to change between himself and Phichit, not really. And it's too prevalent in his mind to ignore. So he’s content to let their winding conversations wash over him. He can't ignore the extra processing that has to happen, and he longs once more for the freedom of the ice. 

 

Yuuri had a lot of flaws, but he tried to never be a coward. If he could be honest with other people, he could be honest with himself. 

 

He loves Phichit. He will  _ always _ love Phichit, and it reminds him of his and Yurio’s first short programs. He would always love Phichit in the sense of agape, but it had become apparent as his heart strayed that they were both ready for something more from different people. Something concrete. Sure they scarcely fought, and they were a good pair, and they loved each other. But Yuuri could see it now, as Phichit sat beside him laughing at something Yuuri hadn't heard, that the passion of a real relationship didn't exist between them. The kind of passion that led to love songs and movies. The quality that leant truth to cliches like kissing in the rain and fighting like mad but not walking away. He and Phichit didn't have  _ that.  _ What they'd had was like bedrock. Reliable and steady, unmoving, unbreakable. It was comfortable. But love wasn't  _ comfortable _ . Not entirely. 

 

It made it easier to let go. To focus on what else Phichit had left him to think about. 

 

Yuuri lets his eyes drift toward Yurio across from him.

 

It couldn't be. Right? Yuuri still couldn't believe what Phichit had said. Yurio had never shown interest in Yuuri before that he could recall. He'd seemingly hated Yuuri when they'd first met. It was undeniable that Yuuri couldn't call him a child anymore, not when his 19th birthday was swiftly approaching, so maybe that was an unfair judgment. Yurio was young, but still no longer a child. Though Yuuri smiles wryly to himself, imagining how violently younger Yurio would have objected to ever being called a child. 

 

But where did that leave Yuuri? 

 

The idea of pursuing it so soon made him feel like tar was sliding down his throat, corrupting him. It made it feel like being with Phichit hadn't mattered somehow if he loved on so quickly. No matter how casual or short lived, Yuuri didn't go into things half hearted very often. Still, Phichit had a point he couldn't help but think to himself, watching the curl of Yurio’s lips as he ducked his head and smiled at something in the conversation. 

 

Yurio was changing him. Making him bold in ways he shouldn't be. Or maybe should, but hadn't anticipated, hadn’t thought himself capable of before.

 

Even just recalling the way they'd pressed together at the rink, red faced and laughing, was enough to make his stomach swoop and squirm. 

 

Yuuri drops his cheek to the table and mentally groans. Phichit had been right.  _ As always.  _

 

As if sensing that particular train of thought and somehow perfectly knowing what Yuuri was despairing over, Phichit turns and smirks at him, condescendingly patting his head and laughing at Yuuri’s glare. 

 

Yuuri took it back, Phichit was the worst. 

 

\------

 

Yuuri returns to the bleachers the next day, after the second round is done the day prior. The chill of the arena is harder to ignore when he's not the one on the ice, working every muscle into the production of his program. With the winter chill setting in for the Northern Hemisphere, most are clad in scarves and mittens. Yuuri wishes he had, but watching the performances is more than enough to distract him. 

 

He cheers for Phichit from the stands as he performs, voice hoarse with shouting as his chest tightens and releases with each jump executed. No matter the ranks that end up on the board, Phichit dances with his soul, as he had in his first Grand Prix. It's why his talent is so plain to see. With his younger age allowing more room for improvement, Phichit was destined to win gold someday, and Yuuri couldn't wait to see it. Boyfriend or not, Phichit’s performances always awed Yuuri. 

 

As Phichit steps off the ice, clutching a few of the presents thrown his way, he smiles and waves enthusiastically back at Yuuri, who stands on his toes jumping and waving alongside his family. 

 

The Katsuki clan slowly calm themselves, chattering and humming over the scores presented and the lineup of skaters that day. Yuuri ignores their prodding, not deigning to share his thoughts on his own potential competitors no matter his confidence that his best friend and Yurio would dominate the competition. Or perhaps he was just now discovering his own brand of arrogance - one he exuded on behalf of the talented skaters he knew. 

 

And then Yurio is limbering up on the ice, nodding to something Yakov is saying. 

 

Yuuri’s heart begins to race, and he can't help standing and shouting. 

 

“Yuri! Good luck!”

 

Yurio jerks and his eyes seek Yuuri in the crowd like he knows instinctively where he is. Lifts a hand in acknowledgment and lets a rare smile pull attractively at his lips. Yuuri’s hand wavers where he keeps it in the air, thrown by the responding tug in his navel at the response. 

 

Minako tugs him back down to his seat with the slyest grin he's ever seen on her face. Yuuri flushes down to his neck and lets Yurio absorb his focus instead. 

 

The music starts, and Yuri flies. 

 

For all his height and breadth, he moves like fire burning up the ice. It's a contrast to the muted jade and tan tones of his outfit. And Yuuri has to squeeze his hands together, understanding the story as fully as Yurio had - unbeknownst to him - understood Yuuri’s. Because even the towering stature of the man on the ice can't shroud the image of a fiery fifteen year old dancing like ghost lights in Yuuri’s mind. Furious and forward, ready to take on the world, as shown by his bold quad salchow right in the beginning. Yuuri’s heart leaps alongside him, and his hands quiver where they lay in his lap. 

 

And then, uncharacteristic of a normal routine, the music slows. Mellows. Deep strings echo and hum pleasantly through the arena speakers, easing Yuuri’s nerves. Yurio flows alongside it, a vision of blond against the green of his outfit, and Yuuri can't look away. 

 

Yurio’s jumps evolve, and Yuuri can finally see the story that Yurio is pouring forth in a rare display of vulnerability and honesty. His short program had focused on growth as a skater in technical skill, but this...this was a wordless novel of the growing he'd had to do to get here. As a gold medalist, as a skater. It hadn't run so parallel to Yuuri’s theme the previous times Yurio had skated it - he'd been more intent on displaying his battle with the changes of his life; the growth of his body, the relinquishing of his barriers. But something had changed, and now Yurio was skating to a goal. Striving towards something, because even in the mellow beats he seems coiled and yearning. It was no longer a battle but a rope to climb, and the change in the dynamic of his free program had the audience - and Yuuri - on the edges of their seats. 

 

None of them knew Yurio the way Yuuri liked to believe he did. But they could still  _ sense _ it, and the judges were paying attention. 

 

Yurio’s hair shines beneath the lights as he spins into his final pose, arms outstretched towards the ceiling. Chest heaving, sweat glinting against his cheeks. The arena erupts into cheers and Yuuri is right alongside them, screaming and clapping. 

 

\------

 

Yurio takes gold. 

 

Yuuri really isn't surprised, not with the daring jumps keeping his technical score high as always. With the inclusion of the performance points where he normally lacked, he was an unstoppable force on the ice.

 

A new competitor takes silver, and Phichit proudly bears his bronze as they all gather in the banquet hall. Yuuri squeezes Phichit’s hand, their shared congratulations having been private at the rink side. But Yuuri can't keep his eyes from helplessly roaming, and Phichit shoves him away playfully. 

 

“Go find him and stop moping like that already,” Phichit taunts playfully. Yuuri knocks his shoulder into him in embarrassed rebuttal, but he knows he's entirely transparent. 

 

As a spectator not on the Russian team, he wasn't allowed to see Yurio at the rinkside. After his stunt in the short program, the ISU officials had their eyes on him, and so Yuuri’s congratulations had been put off until the banquet. Texts seemed so inadequate after a performance like that. So Yuuri had waited, no matter how impatiently, to catch Yurio at the banquet. 

 

Except Yurio isn't in the banquet room. 

 

It's not too surprising. Yurio wasn't big on ecstatic fans or hollow appreciation, and his mouth often got the best of him when he sensed insincerity. But Yuuri also knows without a doubt that Yakov - just like before - wouldn't let his new gold medalist slip away from such an important social event. 

 

So Yuuri lets himself out into the hall, and as he'd suspected, Yurio is standing leaning against the wall with one foot cocked back against it and a hand shoved in his pocket. Idly scrolling through something on his phone. 

 

His bangs are slicked back once more, fitted suit black and contrasting against his skin, and Yuuri has to swallow around a writhing mass of honesty in his throat. He looks...grown up. Comfortable in his body, filling out his suit in ways Yuuri really shouldn't be ogling. He was just...gorgeous, really. 

 

And it's still too soon, but Yuuri has always let his heart lead him. Even if it promised certain trouble, as it had with Victor. Still he has to congratulate Yurio nonetheless he tells himself, even as his heart pounds uncomfortably against his ribs the closer he gets. Until Yurio finally lifts his head, green slits widening from their aggressive glare once he recognizes Yuuri. 

 

“You were amazing out there, Yura,” Yuuri finally breathes out over his fumbling tongue.  _ Best to rip the bandaid off all at once,  _ he thinks. He twists his hands nervously, and stares between Yurio’s bright eyes and the space above his ear. Too nervous and shy with the keen awareness of his own emotions to face Yurio properly. Just like his inability to be near Victor when they'd first met. 

 

Whether it's the diminutive or the shyness, Yurio seems to hit some kind of breaking point as he stares incredulously down at Yuuri. Shoves his phone into his pocket and advances on Yuuri like a slinking predator, all muscle and deadly grace. Leans in until they're scant inches apart, and smirks at the soft hitch in Yuuri’s breathing. 

 

“Did you understand what I was trying to say out there?” It's a dark murmur spoken in the undertone of Yurio’s deepened vocals, and Yuuri is a strong individual but off the ice he can't help but shiver beneath the weight of Yurio’s stare. If Yurio at fifteen could shake and silence him so easily at Sochi, Yuuri thanks the gods that the past version of himself hadn't encountered the Yurio looming above him now. 

 

Yes, he does understand. Or he thinks he does. And it's  _ terrifying.  _ Even thinking over it nonstop with Phichit guiding him couldn't stop the existence of the weakness in himself. The fear of falling for someone that wasn't a guaranteed thing like Phichit. Someone wild and still a little too unknown. Still capable of hurting him so much in ways Phichit had never encroached upon. 

 

With the deliverance and opportunity for passion came the very real threat of losing it all when it was ripped away. 

 

“I don't know if I can,” Yuuri’s voice breaks as he admits it. Yurio doesn't ask for clarification. Doesn't truly need it despite the words not being a logical answer to his question. 

 

Yurio lifts his hand and gently brushes Yuuri’s bangs to the side, hand caressing with the faintest pressure down his cheek and over his neck to glance off his collarbone. Lets his hand fall naturally to Yuuri’s waist. Grounding. Refusing to let Yuuri run, but gentle enough to ensure his freedom if Yuuri sought it. 

 

“I'm not giving up.”

 

Yurio’s hard words are finally enough to lift Yuuri’s eyes to the determined glint in Yurio’s. Punctuated by that large strong hand squeezing tantalizingly at his hip. Yuuri stares, shocked and captivated by each word. Incapable of doing much more than standing there and listening. 

 

“I don't care how long it takes. I don't care what I have to do. You're not getting away from me that easily.”

 

Yurio spins it into the illusion of a threat, but they can both hear the undercurrent of sincerity and dedication that he tries to hide. To overshadow in an attempt to diminish the gravity of this vague admission. It's so endearingly  _ Yuri  _ to set forth a challenge while expressing devotion, and Yuuri absolutely believes him. Yurio doesn't give up easily. But knowing it involves Yuuri? It's hard to believe. 

 

Yurio leans in, and in a way that's becoming all too familiar to Yuuri, kisses his cheek. It's chaste. A gentleman’s kiss, to any passerby in the empty hall. Purposefully restrained. Making a point that Yuuri only half understands. 

 

As Yurio’s lips pass Yuuri’s ear, he's left with parting words. 

 

“I'll prove it to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to yet another chapter! I beat my record again with 21 (almost 22) full pages. Lulu is going to murder me. 
> 
> I have severe anxiety disorder so writing Yuuri's anxiety attack was very liberating for me! I had a lot of fun finding a good balance between the budding feelings between Yuuri and Yurio (who will slowly shift in this story to being called Yuri, I think, because Yurio is a more childish name and Yuuri is no longer seeing him that way) and the guilt Yuuri is feeling over what he perceives as being traitorous for liking someone other than Phichit. 
> 
> Also this is how I perceive Yurio in a tux: [Hotness Awaits](http://68.media.tumblr.com/f4ed91d7652f8c74d50e288aa7b58880/tumblr_oj9buzm3u51twthroo1_500.jpg) with those slicked back bangs hnngghh. I may have already linked that one oops. 
> 
> Random notes; I have been yelled at by rink staff so many times for playing ice tag and I will never apologize. Never. Also Lulu and I think that Yurio should wear a green performance outfit okay, like that blond hair is just asking for it. Victor isn't a total douchebag but he's still 48% douche. Phichit is Purest Boyfriend in the World™ and I will defend him with my life. 
> 
> Thank you all for your continued support! I'm going through a seriously rough patch in my life with my health, and this story is something I can come home to after work and smile and enjoy writing it. This isn't even close to the end! I intend to cut Wildflowers a little past their getting together, but SURPRISE, there will be a sequel! And then little oneshots set in same universe! I really hope you guys will like that! 
> 
> I feel like I had a lot more notes to add and reasonings behind my choices but...hrm. AUTHOR DOES WHAT AUTHOR WANTS (when Beta will let her). Lets go with that. Let me know, as always, what you think! Your comments make me giggle and smile every single day, and I wouldn't be here without your support!


	9. Mistletoe -- Kiss Me; Affection; To Surmount Difficulties

Saying goodbye doesn’t get any easier with time. Too many years traveling across continents, sleeping on planes, trying to remember snatches of sense memories from Hasetsu, and it had never gotten any easier. Home had become such a distant concept to him that he’d stopped yearning for it long ago. Returning to Japan for the NHK Trophy was a rare but cherished gift, and as the competition comes to a close, Yuuri begins to fear for the future and the goodbyes it brings. There are so many this time, far more than Yuuri was accustomed to bearing. 

 

His goodbyes to his family are not easy, but they are rote nonetheless: he kisses his mother’s cheeks, hugs his father, gets a slap on the back from his sister. For some reason he just doesn’t...grasp the realization that he will have to say goodbye to the entire Russian team —e ven Mila and Yakov. He drifts through the last day practicing routines with the Russians at the Ice Castle like there will be more days that come after, and the reality doesn’t hit him until they’re standing in the airport watching the glow of the flight numbers flicker on the large board overhead. 

 

He has to say goodbye again. 

 

It feels like a hand suddenly gripping his throat, malevolently squeezing the contentment from his lungs until he’s empty and gasping. He can’t help the way his hand shoots out to grab Yurio’s jacket, like he can somehow drag Yuri back to Detroit with him. Yurio jerks in sleepy surprise and turns to squint down at him, rumpled irritation smoothing into concern at the way Yuuri stares blankly ahead at the flickering board. Something like frozen terror on his face. The younger man glances surreptitiously around, the zombiefied faces of his rinkmates enough to convince him that whatever goes on between the two of them will not be readily noticed. 

 

So Yuri turns and blocks the others from view with his broad shoulders clad in his tri-colored team jacket. He lays his hand against the dip of Yuuri’s back and draws Yuuri’s attention back to those intense green eyes. Yuuri shudders, recalling the words Yuri had spoken at the banquet. It still haunts him vividly, and he wonders if that’s why Yuri is becoming so free with his touches. Makes sense that the lovably entitled man would be so proprietary and physical in his courting. The thought is just barely enough to shake Yuuri out of his reverie, and he slowly looks away from those eyes and all the way down to their shoes. 

 

“I...I forgot that you weren’t coming with me.” It’s barely more than a whisper, not only embarrassed by his forgetfulness but still feeling strangled with sudden grief. It’s only a few weeks until the Final, barely anything in comparison to the months they’d spent apart previously, so why is he feeling this way? When had everything changed and left Yuuri shipwrecked and stranded, unable to find his way to shore?

 

Something Yuuri can’t name darkens Yurio’s eyes, and he wants so badly to understand it but he doesn’t have the time to stare. Yurio leans in and shifts Yuuri with gentle pressure on his spine, until he’s tucking Yuuri under his chin and hugging him close. It’s so uncharacteristic of Yurio, who preferred passion over gentler affections, that Yuuri knows he’s doing it on Yuuri’s behalf. Yuuri takes advantage of it, sliding his hands around Yurio’s sides and hugging him close beneath his jacket. They’re not necessarily hiding from everyone else, but neither would even know where to begin to try and explain who they are to each other. 

 

“It’s only a few weeks, stupid katsudon,” Yurio murmurs quietly into his hair, and Yuuri smiles against Yurio’s chest. It’s ridiculously clear that the words are an endearment, and he can only visualize the pink that’s surely darkening the tips of Yurio’s ears. It helps ease the weight off his chest, the distinct loss he’s already feeling at the idea of having to say goodbye now. 

 

“I...I’m going to miss you until the Final,” Yuuri admits, tone bewildered and aching in equal parts. Yurio tenses like he’s restraining himself, and Yuuri tries to tilt his head upward curiously, wanting to see Yurio’s expression to try and figure it out. Except the Russian won’t let him move back enough, so he only succeeds in dragging his nose up the column of Yurio’s neck. Faint traces of shampoo and cologne tickle at his nose in response and he can’t help but want to memorize it. Two weeks seems terribly long when what they have (if they have anything at all) is so new and tentative. 

 

“Don't go sappy on me now after giving me such a hard time,” Yurio gripes, but Yuuri can sense the playfulness and embarrassment in his voice.  _ He hasn't changed too much to be unrecognizable. He's still Yuri.  _

 

Phichit clears his throat softly, indicating that the group had finally figured out which way to go and would soon be prying into their moment together. Yuuri reluctantly drops his hands, trying not to question why such a rare hug had felt so comforting. He doesn't  _ succeed _ , but he tries. Yuuri had vowed to at least try and let himself experience the ridiculous challenge/courting thing Yurio had propositioned him with. No running and hiding, no doubting. There was a reason he wasn't very successful after all. 

 

If he sticks a little closer to Yurio as they find their way into the proper terminal, the rest of the group is too tired to take notice. Except maybe Phichit. 

 

But time cannot be stopped or hampered no matter how Yuuri tries. Their advancement through security can only be interrupted so much before they have to go their separate ways. It feels too public - even if it's just the two teams together at some godawful early hour - to say goodbye to Yurio the way he wants to.  _ Needs _ to. In the span of a few months Yuuri had come to rely on Yurio’s friendship across timezones and continents connected only by technology, and in just a few days his world had been tipped upside down by having the real Yurio there. He wasn't even sure where the boundaries lay, much less how many were in existence. There were no labels or guidelines for Yuuri to rely on here. 

 

And through it all Yurio is watching him, and Yuuri can't stand how it makes his heart thump so hard against his ribs. 

 

Phichit sends Celestino on ahead and gently touches Yuuri’s elbow. He isn't even pretending to look in the right direction, holding eyes with Yurio in the other line as they prepare to board separate planes. 

 

“Yuuri...it's time to go.” 

 

Yuuri can't manage to tear his eyes away. Not until Yurio seems to come to a decision, murmuring to Mila to hold his spot as he strides long-legged and graceful towards Yuuri. As he walks he strips off his jacket, and Yuuri can't help how his mouth goes dry at the clearer view of the plain t-shirt the young man is wearing. Where was the airport security? Surely this had to be illegal!

 

And then Yurio is right there in front of him, his scowl twitching into a tiny smile for Yuuri’s eyes only.  Unexpectedly, the blond drapes his coat around Yuuri’s shoulders, conspicuously amused by how Yuuri drowns in it. Then he leans in and slowly fixes the collar, like he needs an excuse to touch Yuuri in public as they stare quietly at each other. 

 

“Keep it safe until Finals. You better not ruin it,” Yurio murmurs quietly, an endearing tilt to his smirk that expresses a fondness that makes Yuuri’s heart trip over itself. He pulls the jacket around himself and nods, not trusting himself to speak so soon. Yurio is only lending Yuuri his team jacket, but it feels like more. A connection across miles and time zones, an item to wear to express to others his connection to Yurio. Something to hold in the next few days as he battles with his emotions and practices for the Final. 

 

Yurio’s fingers rub at the collar, reluctant to take his hands away, and brushes his fingertips across the side of Yuuri’s neck instead. Yuuri subtly tilts his head towards the touch, finally letting himself smile a little. It's not the same, but the jacket is something to cling to until they saw each other again. It's embarrassingly romantic and rather forward, and the awareness of that paints Yuuri’s cheeks a warm rouge. Yurio just smirks. Possessive, cheeky brat. 

 

“I won't.” 

 

It's not a goodbye. Yuuri tries to say it but he just can't. This is all they can bear to express, the only parting they're ready to engage in. Yurio steps back and tucks the jacket closer around Yuuri before nodding to himself like everything is aligned now, and then he's striding away towards Mila and his abandoned luggage. Phichit pulls Yuuri through the checkpoint, and he watches for blond hair as long as he can. 

 

As he nestles into the jacket on the plane to prepare himself for sleep, Yuuri smiles. He would show Yurio what he was capable of at the Final. His world did not revolve any one person, and Yuuri knew Yurio wouldn't want it any other way. As a person who valued his freedom and independence, Yurio would undoubtedly encourage Yuuri to the same end. And yes, he would miss the Russian terribly. Probably too much considering how quickly everything seemed to be falling into place, but with the jacket around his shoulders Yuuri would reclaim his conviction for the gold medal. Yurio had inspired him, had presented another challenge that Yuuri would inevitably end up including in his free skate. Maybe by the time the Final came around, he'd be brave enough to skate for Yurio without reservation. 

 

He had some practicing to do. 

 

\------

 

Yuuri goes alone to the Grand Prix Final. Though he supposes he's not truly alone as Celestino comes with him, it's not the same without Phichit. There’s a void where his best friend should be, and yet it reinforces how right Phichit had been in initiating their breakup. He doesn’t feel lost and shattered as he had when Victor had flown back to Japan, leaving him to barely squeak through to the Final. He feels longing and nostalgia, sure, but he doesn't feel devastated. 

 

They land early in the morning and Yuuri groggily follows after a chipper Celestino as they check into the official hotel. There are a ton of reporters and cameras, and Yuuri tugs his mask higher and buries into his scarf nervously. He really doesn't want pictures taken of him. Luckily the hotel management is more than accustomed to shuffling skaters through the process as quickly as possible, and he disappears into his room and shuts the door with a sigh of relief. 

 

It's so quiet.

 

Yuuri had always grown up surrounded by noise. The visitors at the inn, his sister running through the halls, Vicchan’s barking and whining. The sound of music in a ballet studio, punctuated by Minako’s sharp corrections and humming pride. Even as he grew older, with the sound of multiple pairs of skates on the ice, the cheering of the crowd, his song on the loudspeakers as he danced to his program. 

 

Phichit’s soft snoring. Celestino’s bellowing laughter. Victor’s sleeptalking and Makkachin’s jerking limbs as the dog dreamed. 

 

Now the silence is eerie and oppressive. He feels Phichit’s absence keenly. It hounds him as he quickly sheds his travel clothes and pulls on something more appropriate. Or  _ less _ appropriate maybe he grimaced as he realizes Phichit had snuck different clothes into his suitcase. Probably in some mischievous attempt at getting Yuuri leverage against Yurio. 

 

Yuuri blushes at just the thought, standing awkwardly in front of the mirror. He dropped all his off season weight and there's nothing to worry about, but he still feels strange and out of place in the deep v-neck shirt. Even if the dark maroon does look admittedly attractive against his skin, the way it clings in all the right places only makes him feel embarrassed. Not  _ confident  _ like Phichit was probably hoping. 

 

He hastily pulls on Yurio’s jacket to distract himself from the keen awareness of his own body, and then realizes what kind of statement he’ll be making if he walks out there wearing another country’s colors. Especially when he intended to go  _ find _ the Russian team. 

 

Yuuri stands in front of the mirror for a long time just thinking about it. Eyes tracing well-loved seams and bright colors in the mirror as he contemplates the gravity of his decision. What is he prepared to do? Yurio had said that he would prove himself to Yuuri, and there was an undeniable pull between them...but Yuuri had shied away from the topic even in the privacy of his own thoughts. Here, the one free day before the short program tomorrow, with Yurio’s jacket swaddling him in front of the mirror, he can't avoid that subject any longer. 

 

Walking out with Yurio’s jacket wrapped around him as he goes to intentionally seek out the blond is a big move. One that tells not only every person in the vicinity, but  _ Yuuri himself  _ too, that he is committing to Yurio. No matter how new or formless their attachment to each other, it would be Yuuri’s move on the chessboard. And maybe it had been all along. Maybe Yurio was the one waiting for him to give a sign. 

 

Was he going to try and devote himself to a new relationship, no matter how slowly? Or was he going to run away?

 

\------

 

Yurio’s hair is all pulled back into a messy bun, little strands framing his angular cheekbones and revealing the intensity of his eyes. Eyes that turn to Yuuri as he calls his name, a nervous smile playing on his lips as he moves through the crowd. 

 

Yuuri watches those same eyes go wide, an astonished smile trying to curl the younger man’s lips as people part to let him through, blatantly staring. 

 

“Hi,” Yuuri breathes, like he doesn't have the conviction to form the word any other way. Victor looks like he’s swallowed something sour, with the way his smile is forced and pinched at the edges. Yuuri notices, but his eyes are still drawn magnetically to Yurio. He and Victor hadn’t figured out everything together, but that wouldn’t - couldn’t - hold him back from doing this for himself.

 

“Hi,” Yurio parrots dumbly, and Yuuri can't help but grin at how off kilter he looks. Hadn't he been the one to say it was only two weeks until they saw each other again?  _ Now who’s being dramatic? _

 

“Are you guys busy? Can we go to breakfast?” As amusing as their star struck faces were, Yuuri was beginning to slowly become nervous beneath the weight of everyone’s stares, immediately doubting himself and his decisions. 

 

Yurio must pick up on it because he glares at the people around them and immediately marches closer, something vaguely threatening about every footfall. It was far more effective than when he'd been fifteen, at least. Everyone glances away immediately, looking either chastened or intimidated. Yuuri couldn't help but be grateful. 

 

Victor and Georgi huddle in as well, effectively blocking prying eyes. 

 

“Yeah let's get out of here,” Yurio grumbles, only rolling his eyes like he'd expected it when the other two Russians immediately follow along like ducklings. Food was the great unifier after all. 

 

As they walk out through the side doors away from the larger masses of journalists, Yurio leans in close as they walk with arms brushing against each other. 

 

“I do expect that back,” Yurio murmurs against his ear. Yuuri shivers, but he can see the smirk of satisfaction, the cat-that-ate-the-canary grin on Yurio’s face. He's not fooled. Yurio was exuding smugness from every pore. As if he'd already won. It's enough to give Yuuri a competitive boost to his confidence, and he lifts his chin and smiles without leaning closer or blushing. 

 

“You can get it back if you steal the gold from me,” he simpers, slyly cutting his gaze to the side to watch the surprise and amusement flicker across Yurio’s face. 

 

As they wander down the street further and further away from prying eyes, Yurio reaches across and lets his arm fall over Yuuri’s shoulders. Long fingers play with the striped collar before boldly darting in to slide against Yuuri’s neck where nobody else can see. 

 

All hesitation regarding wearing the jacket at all dissolves beneath that promising touch. Yuuri couldn't stop being brave just because he left the ice. He had to take a risk eventually. 

 

\------

 

Yuuri draws for the second half. It's a relief, and he returns to his position clutching his card and wondering how bad it would look if he kissed it in joy. 

 

Yurio and Victor both draw the first half. 

 

It's still intimidating being up against Victor, even though he'd stolen gold from him at the last Final. But Victor had been his idol for years, and though he'd always held secret dreams of being  _ better _ than Victor, he'd just...never believed it would actually happen. And here he was preparing to try and obtain gold a second time against Yurio and Victor. 

 

The other three who drew for the second half walk with Yuuri and their respective coaches to the sidelines or the back room for warming up and waiting. They'd already had ice time that morning, and Yuuri can only imagine the tabloids exploding in glee at the banter between the three Russians and himself. They were already going crazy over the trio making it back to the Final again for the second time - and for the two Yuris, the third. Their closeness as friends and rivals didn't help that, and Yuuri’s increasing confidence as he tossed friendly taunts at the Russians was just icing on the cake of gossip. 

 

That confidence is hard to find, here. 

 

_ My hands are shaking, _ he thinks dumbly as he fails to untwist the cap off the water bottle Celestino hands him. With his headphones in he can’t hear the world around him, but they only cancel out the extra noise  _ outside _ of his head. Inside...even the music can’t reach past the jumbled, harried thoughts that race around in his head until he feels more exhausted than any practice session he’s ever had. Until finally Celestino reaches over and pops out one of his earbuds, making Yuuri turn and look helplessly at his coach, expecting some vague attempt to inspiring confidence. 

 

“Watch, Yuuri,” Celestino urges instead, a knowing smile on his face as he points towards the ice. 

 

Yuuri can’t help but confusedly obey, because Celestino had  _ always _ kept him away from the rinkside. Most of the time he only watched the competition after he’d performed, even with Victor. It was too intimidating, too defeating to see the scores on the board or the flawlessness of the executions he struggled with. It had always made him feel like he wasn’t adequate, and he’d stopped watching midway through his Juniors. So why now was it suddenly changing?

 

His eyes go to the rink as he finally pops out his other earbud and hands it to Celestino, wandering closer.  _ What game are you playing, Celestino? Are you giving up on me?  _ But why would he? Yuuri was a two-time gold medalist at the Final, Celestino shouldn’t be feeling that way, but he couldn’t help the deceit in his heart regarding his coach’s instructions. Even at his first Final, Celestino had been waiting for a signal from Yuuri to move forward in nationals. Yuuri hadn’t given it, seeing every resigned smile and step back as frustration and defeat instead of Celestino trying to force him into his own independence. He’d thought he was doing Celestino a favor by dropping him as a coach. 

 

He’d always doubted himself more than Celestino, though.

 

Victor is on the ice, gliding slowly around the rink as spectators murmur to themselves in the stands. Captivated by the loveliness of his familiar form. 

 

It hurts Yuuri, to see shades of silver he memorized in childhood shining beneath the lights. He knows the way Victor smiles, the scope of his shoulders and the way it so easily carries the world. He knows how Victor drools in his sleep, the way his fingers trace idle patterns and jumps on any flat surface he can find. Always moving, always dancing in his head. The way Yuuri does. They were kindred spirits, and his own soul resonates as Victor slides from his starting position to cross the ice. 

 

His hands find the chilled surface of the rinkboard, clinging to it like he’ll fall if he lets go. 

 

Watching Victor dance, after everything that had happened in the past year…

 

It feels like goodbye. 

 

A eulogy, to the relationship he had been hanging onto in the back of his mind and his heart for so long. 

 

He has said so many goodbyes these past few days, and he can’t help how he stares in total captivation as Victor goes through his routine. Can’t even focus on the technical elements, because the dance drives home the distinction that lays between them now. 

 

And it’s...not a bad feeling. 

 

The distance between himself and Victor on the ice seems to speak for the year they’d spent apart, the trials Yuuri had overcome even prior to that. He was so much stronger, so much more capable. And Victor had helped a lot of that, but not  _ all _ of it.  _ Yuuri _ had done it. _ Yuuri _ had won those medals, because Victor may have helped him train but he had been the one on the ice performing alone. 

 

Yuuri had won those gold medals. 

 

Yuuri had defended his title.

 

Yuuri had overcome the worst heartbreak he’d ever experienced.

 

_ Yuuri  _ had done all that. 

 

He stares at Victor panting and grinning in his ending pose, and turns back to Celestino and smiles. He’s ready now, and he can tell that Celestino is pleased by the renewed fire that must be in his eyes. He has the courage and the ability to be brave, to perform his program to its fullest extent. Not to prove it to Victor, or Phichit, or Yurio. He loved them all, and they had all lifted him individually higher as a competitor and as a person. 

 

But he needed to skate this for  _ himself _ . As he always should have, and undoubtedly had tried to in the previous competitions, but had never fully managed. 

 

There was no room to lean on others any longer. Knowing they were there if he ever  _ did _ fall was a comfort that helped ease his anxiety. The rest had to be done alone. On his own two feet, with the strength of his own will. If only to make  _ himself _ proud. Not a coach, or a boyfriend, or a rival. 

 

_ Himself. _

 

\------

 

Yurio and Victor are neck and neck in their short program. The competition is undoubtedly fierce, but he would ask nothing less from the two Russians. They deserved the podium, but Yuuri was beginning to realize that he did too. That winning didn't mean feeling guilty, that their support was not dependent upon using him to make themselves feel better. 

 

When his time comes, he glides onto the ice with determined purpose. 

 

He flies. 

 

Crippled wings had kept him grounded and nervous, scared of the skies he belonged in. And he'd never tested them after the bandages came free, too many years of anxiety keeping him from ever trying again. 

 

But his wings had healed, he'd just needed to take the leap. To let them carry him as they should. To remember his place in the sky, on the ice, in the world. 

 

The jump would never stop being scary. But he will always know now that he will land safely. 

 

His skates smoothly land on the ice, and they carry him unfailingly. 

 

The crowd screams. 

 

Yuuri can scarcely recall his routine as he trips jelly-legged off the ice. Can't remember the details, just the shine of lights off the ice, the feeling of finally knowing himself to his bones. Pride and safety in his legs, his body, his skates. 

 

_ I'm a top world skater. This ice is my home. It has been my life forever, and I owe it to myself to show my love for it.  _

 

He's sitting stunned and dazed, riding a high he's never felt so keenly, when the scores come through and the world around him explodes. 

 

“YUURI KATSUKI HAS BROKEN THE SHORT PROGRAM WORLD RECORD HELD BY YURI PLISETSKY WITH A SCORE OF 112.35!”

 

The screams vibrate the entire stadium, stomping and cheering deafening as it eventually drowns out even the voices on the speakers. 

 

Yuuri can't hear anything anyway through his tears. His smile aches, and he cries for the Yuuri who had failed so many times in the past, who had cried in bathroom stalls and had convinced himself so regularly of his own inability to win that he'd never bothered to think any differently. He cries for the person he used to be, for the rush he feels at having made it  _ again _ . Holding  _ two  _ records now. 

 

This is his legacy, no matter how short lived. No matter how quickly a young upstart will overcome it. 

 

_ I'm a world champion. I’m a world champion...I made it. This is who I am, what I was always capable of.  _

 

And Yuuri cries for that realization, for the years he'd never believed it. 

 

\------

 

His hands are shaking as Celestino readily leads him away to change out of his costume, skates already placed in his bag. Normally Yuuri didn't take them off so early, but his knees feel like they can't hold the weight of this new reality for very long. His euphoria battles with his shock, feeling like his world is lighting up with fireworks but the sound is still deafening. 

 

Yuuri can't hear the voices trying to rise through the static, Celestino’s tearful ramblings or the awed congratulations from his fellow skaters. This is surely a dream. Even cotton clouds can suffocate, and he can't help the overwhelmed happy tears that cling to his power lashes in a distorted film. 

 

Celestino abruptly stops, the hand guiding Yuuri at his lower back shifting, and Yuuri follows along senselessly. Until a familiar emerald outfit and golden hair click in his brain, and it's like touching a live wire.

 

Yurio is running down the hallway, a smiling, tearful mess. Victor is right behind him, smile brighter than the sun over his homeland oceans. Yuuri’s own breath hitches and he stumbles forward and he's running, running, begging his legs to carry him these last few steps until they all collide. 

 

Yurio gets to him first, yanks him up into the fiercest hug Yuuri has ever known. Victor wraps his long arms around them both, and there is laughter and tears and words in a multitude of languages that Yuuri can't register. The two converge upon him, filling him with their warmth, their genuine joy for his accomplishment. Pouring into him until Yuuri is overflowing with love. Spilling out between the cracks of his desperate fingers, like warm hot spring water and Vicchan’s soft fur and every type and shape of love that Yuuri had ever known. And he lets his fingers open wide, releasing himself of that fear of being loved. Of accepting it. Of fearing that he is not worthy of it. Because here they are, the two who had held the record before him, and their tears are for  _ him.  _ They love him, in different shades and colors maybe but they  _ love him _ , and Yuuri begins to cry. 

 

They hold him all the tighter, hiding him from the world, arms tangled and skin pressing insistently. They both take handfuls of the weight of new discoveries and uneven, untouched ground from Yuuri’s shoulders and place it on their own. Until he can finally breathe again, can feel the fresh cool air in his lungs and truly be happy instead of weighed down. 

 

They let him cry, because he deserves this. A moment to cry out the shock, the happiness. And they don't worry or fear, because Yuuri is smiling through it all. 

 

“Thank you,” he babbles, clinging to Yurio, turning his face into Victor’s shoulder.

 

They don't ask him what for. They already know. 

 

\------

 

Celestino gently retrieves him after he comes down, but Yuuri does not part quickly. He reaches out and grabs Yurio’s hand, both of their cheeks pink at the action. He glances shyly at the younger man, all flashy boldness left behind on the ice, leaving only a steady thrum of courage that hums like a lullaby in his ears. 

 

“Tonight? Can we...will you…?” Yuuri’s eyebrows pinch, frustrated and embarrassed by his own inability to find the right words. Unsure what he even wants to say because he has no distinct  _ plan _ of what he wants. 

 

Yurio nods nonetheless, something heady and warm in his gaze as the embarrassment recedes. Yuuri trembles internally at that look. He knows he looks like a mess, with his messed up hair, the lingering sheen of sweat on his collarbones and temples, the red-rimmed eyes and rouged cheeks from crying. And yet Yurio is looking at him like...like…

 

Not like the sun, or the moon, or any other romantic notion with implied inferiority. Not like Yuuri is the most beautiful person on the planet, or a perfect gem he wants to possessively hoard. And though there are tendrils of fondness in his expression that remind Yuuri of how Phichit looks at him - the twitch of a smile in the corner of his lips, the subtle inward turn of his brows - it's not the same as Phichit. 

 

Yuri is looking at him like he'd follow him anywhere. Like he wants to kiss him  _ despite  _ the salt of tears surely lingering on Yuuri’s lips. Like Yuuri is in equal parts insufferable, beloved, and exhilarating. 

 

Yuuri wishes the other skaters did not shamelessly hang around, watching, because he suddenly has so much he wants to say and do. Yurio’s trembling smirk, amused and overwhelmed in equal parts, belies the fact that he senses that in Yuuri. 

 

“Yes, stupid katsudon. Now go, I won't wait around forever,” Yurio teases in a murmured, low voice as he hooks his free thumb in his pocket and cocks a hip out, one heel resting obstinately on the floor. Yuuri isn't fooled by the bad boy act. Yurio’s eyes are far too soft in the setting of their cat-like, mischievous slants. He would wait as long as Yuuri needed. 

 

Yuuri squeezes the hand he still holds captive, enjoying the way it makes Yurio’s smirk slide wider like he's somehow won something. As if Yuuri didn't just totally crush his short program score, Yuuri can't help but think in a tiny, prideful voice. 

 

He turns and lets Celestino guide him back to the locker room, fingers sliding away from Yurio’s.

 

Victor leans in as Yuuri retreats, knocking his shoulder against Yurio’s and laughing when the taller man doesn't even scowl as he watches Yuuri wander down the hall. 

 

“There goes your gold,” Victor croons. Neither know which way he means, but it feels like both. 

 

\------

 

The interviews go by in a storm of blinding flashes and yelled questions, and he barely remains afloat through it all. It's grounding in the way that his nervousness comes creeping back, dampening his excitement enough to clear his head. Yuuri knows he can be brave _ ,  _ he just proved that to the entire world. But it doesn't change who he  _ is.  _ The fact that he is still a bumbling, shy, easily embarrassed man who speaks softly and does not like crowds. Being multi-faceted and embracing strengths he had doubted possessing doesn't change his personality, and the reporters don't seem to see that.

 

Celestino does, and he leads him away after a reasonable amount of interviews. Yuuri deserves the peace and quiet that he wants after such a triumph. They return to the rink, to hear the final scores of the judges. It's still just as intimidating and exhilarating to hear his name called out for first place. But for once he feels like he actually  _ deserves _ it. Because he had given his all out there, in one of the most intense, intimate programs he'd ever skated. Yuuri was terrified to skate his free program, because it was even more personal. That's exactly why he'd chosen it, but it didn't make it any less daunting. 

 

Yurio reappears as the skaters move in a herd of jackets emblazoned with their respective country colors, sticking together to travel the short distance to the hotel and avoid fans and reporters alike. Yuuri is smiling pleasantly as Chris fills him in on his cat’s most recent escapades when Yurio suddenly  _ appears _ at his side, languidly gliding along in an unfairly graceful, captivating manner that draws Yuuri’s attention away from Chris. Not that the man seems to care, with how he giggles and drifts away on some secret mission Yuuri definitely doesn't want to know about. 

 

“Yura!” He cries in joyful surprise, watching Yurio smirk down at him in response. Yuuri feels the heat of his ears turn them red, and valiantly tries to keep eye contact. He's not stupid or entirely oblivious, he knows he has a...healthy appreciation for Yurio’s unfairly gorgeous features. It's reminiscent of how he’d been with Victor the first few months. But this was so much more than an idyllic crush. Yuuri had been fairly intimidated and annoyed by Yurio when they’d first met, of course it wasn’t the same. But with time and months in Russia...helping each other stretch, squabbling over the last bit of food because of their paralleled tastes, exploring the city as Yurio playfully scolded Yuuri for his terrible accent, even doing ballet together. They’d both realized - or at least he hoped so - that there was so much more to the other Yuri. 

 

“Oi, katsudon, are you even listening?” Fingers snap in front of Yuuri’s face, and he jerks backwards with a strangled noise of embarrassment, cheeks going crimson. He’d been  _ staring!  _ Pretty much objectifying the younger man, lost in a trail of memories. Except Yurio seems far from offended, if the mischievous smirk on his face is any indication. That morning’s flustered sputterings seem so far away. The tables were effectively switched. 

 

“S-Sorry,” he mutters, hands anxiously playing with the cuffs of his own Japanese jacket. Unfortunately he’d had to change; it was one thing to wear Yurio’s Russian jacket in the hotel over street clothes, but he still skated for his country proudly at the end of the day. He swallows hard and tries not to rub at his chest and the deep v-neck still snug against his skin beneath it. It reminds him of Phichit’s not-so-subtle encouragements, which doesn’t help the sting of his red cheeks. However it  _ does _ give him the courage to stand his ground when Yurio’s grin edges wider and the blond steps boldly forward into his space, leaning over him. Clearly his natural proclivity for intimidation wound its way easily into...whatever this was. Flirting? Seduction?

 

Yuuri shivers all over even entertaining the word. 

 

“Were you staring,  Зайчонок?” Yurio purrs, as charming as a kitten, but Yuuri isn’t fooled. He can still sense the wicked teeth, the devastating power Yurio has beneath his alluring mask. His stomach clenches in eager approval of that idea, reminding him that Yurio is a young man who would not be patient for long. Not with the confidence he possessed. 

 

“What? No! No I was just - “ Yuuri flails and shakes his head, denying vehemently. Yurio’s glinting eyes and devil may care grin told him that the blond wasn’t buying it in the least. He leaned even closer, and Yuuri hysterically wonders where all the other skaters disappeared to, realizing they’re alone on the street and Yurio is  _ right there right there oh god he’s getting closer what is he doing?!  _

 

Yuuri wants to die, his heart is racing and he’s sure to simply lose it right there on some random street in France. His gravestone was sure to be mortifying: killed by Yuri Plisetsky’s eros. The last thing Yurio would ever have over him. 

 

“What do you think about food? I’m starving.”

 

Yuuri only then realizes he’d clenched his eyes shut and tentatively opens one to see Yurio standing a respectable distance away, phone pulled out as he browses the nearest cafes. Yuuri feels like keeling over and clutching his heart, but he can still see the handsome smirk on Yurio’s face and it’s so  _ aggravating _ . 

 

Victor had been charming but in a bubbly, vapidly innocent way. His seductions were few and far between, which made sense as it was more of a game to the man than anything. And Yuuri knew Phichit too well to ever feel like the Thai man was seducing him intently, to feel like he was shaking out of his skin beneath heated gazes and soft breaths across his cheekbones. 

 

Yurio was an entirely different beast, and Yuuri was hopelessly underprepared. 

 

“Wait...Yura, wait, what did you call me?!” He chases after the Russian, face pinched unhappily at the idea of another insult being added to the repertoire. Yurio merely laughs, the deep rich sound twisting in Yuuri’s chest as he easily plays keep away on his long, limber legs. 

 

And that’s how they drag one another to shop after shop, stumbling through paltry French and blowing far too much money on food and clothes they really don’t need to try and stuff into their already packed suitcases. 

 

The night seems to seep through his fingertips like black sand, spattered with stars and a heavy moon that guides their way beneath buttery lamplights. December is one of the coldest months for France, and they huddle together as they walk down the streets, sharing little comments and inside jokes in a union of blended languages that nobody else can understand. 

 

Yurio’s hands are buried in his pockets as he complains about the cold, hissing and shoving Yuuri lightly with his shoulder when he sassily comments on the weakness of his Russian genes. 

 

Yuuri swallows hard as he contemplates, trying to summon the courage to go through with it. Snorts because wow, wasn’t his life defined by that silly word lately? 

 

He can’t keep putting off the decision, the commitment to a yes or no. He’d followed his heart so sincerely his entire life; skating over ballet even though he’d grown up in Minako’s studio, fighting his anxiety every step of the way to become good at something he loved, fighting ever harder for Victor when he became his coach. He had slipped into loving Phichit so easily, hadn’t felt the guilt over somehow betraying Victor because Victor had broken him so thoroughly. So why was he hesitating  _ now?  _

 

And god damn it he’d asked himself this how many times now, without answer?

 

_ Because he scares me. Because he is so intense and passionate and beautiful, and I am...not. Because he could make me change into someone better, and I’m not sure I’m ready. Because I could actually love him. Because he could hurt me so much worse than Victor or Phichit that way. _

 

So he’d finally admitted it. Maybe not out loud, but nobody needed to know this more than he did anyway. 

 

_ Isn’t this what I’ve always wanted, though? To be better, to be loved… _

 

Yuuri’s face heats and he buries his chin into the collar of his jacket, scowling in embarrassment at his own thoughts. What was he saying?  _ Love?  _ That was far too serious for something so new and untested. 

 

Untested…

 

How could he know unless he tried? He may never be burned if he didn’t take the leap, but he’d also never experience the warmth either. Was he ready to do that? To try again? With...with Yuri?

 

Yuuri glances shyly at the blond man at his side, who is swiping through something on his phone, the screen’s glow lighting up the handsome cut of his jaw and the shadows of his lashes across a pale cheek. 

 

_ I could love him. _

 

He stops right there, on a quiet street in France, after breaking a world record and letting himself proudly wear Yuri’s jacket in a symbolic manner he still couldn’t swallow down right. His heart knocks and rattles in his chest. Yurio turns, eyebrow lifting in silent question as he slips his phone into his pocket. And if that isn’t a moving gesture on its own, well…

 

Yuuri reaches forward and his hand trembles as it dances down Yurio’s wrist, the strong bones of the back of his hand, dancing between knuckles and slowly interlacing their hands. Yuri is staring at him in silence, intent but unmoving. Letting Yuuri decide, letting him set the boundaries. He had seen the damage Victor had done by not defining to Yuuri who and what they were, and while he wasn’t patient or bubbly like Victor, he  _ tried.  _ Even when it put him in uncomfortable foreign situations like the night they’d shared in Yuuri’s bed, Yurio kept trying. His tenacious nature helped to not be disappointed by Yuuri’s tentativeness, and though Yuuri can read the longing in the twitch of his larger hand against Yuuri’s, he doesn’t move or speak. 

 

“I…” the word seems swallowed up in the darkness of the night. Choking him with the weight of this decision. But when he looks up, Yuri’s eyes are bright with hope, and they never stray from his face. Watching him, as he always had been for years. Long before Victor had ever recognized his talent. It had always been Yuri, even then. 

 

“I’m not good at this,” he admits in a quaking voice, and Yurio finally moves, squeezing his hand firmly where they’re intertwined. Warmth blossoms between their palms, chasing away the chill of the evening. Yuuri wants to hate the metaphors that he reads like poetry between the lines of their clasped fingers, the fact that Yuri was a fire where Victor had been snow - ephemeral, untouchable, elusive - and Phichit had been water - cleansing, steadying, playful. 

 

“I’m not bold. I’m shy, and I don’t... _ do _ this kind of stuff. I never dated in college or in training. I...I don’t know how to say the kind of things you do,” Yuuri despairs, clinging to Yurio’s hand. The blond’s eyebrows twitch downward, mouth scrunching like he intends to say something to dispute that, seemingly offended by the words falling hesitantly from Yuuri’s mouth. Yuuri squeezes his hand desperately, cutting off the words until Yurio retreats and settles with a small huff. 

 

“Yuri. Yura. I...I don’t know if I’m reading this right, but…” he steps forward, hands still clutching at one another between their chests. Yuuri forces himself to look into those dynamic green eyes, to watch the possessiveness and excitement and breathlessness that overtakes Yurio. Forces himself to acknowledge that it’s because of him. 

 

“Will you kiss me?” he whispers beneath the stars and the gentle glow of the streetlamp, warmth falling into the cracks where the cold tries to seep in. Chased away by interlaced fingers and closeness.

 

Yuri makes a soft, hurt noise, like he’s so happy that it’s somehow painful, and uses their connected hands to draw Yuuri closer. He sways forward obediently, until his sneakers nudge up against Yurio’s in a distantly comedic way. 

 

“I’ve been waiting for you to ask me that for ages, stupid katsudon,” Yuri murmurs in the deep undertone of a voice made low with age, the soft rumble of it in his chest both soothing and electrifying. 

 

_ Sorry to keep you waiting, _ Yuuri wants to say, but his lips tremble and Yuri is looking at him like something precious and thoughts don’t have much place here. 

 

A large, gentle hand reaches up to cradle his face, and Yuuri lets his eyes slip shut and lets Yuri guide him. Tilts a fraction of an inch and feels Yuri’s hair sweep down to tickle his cheek as their lips touch. 

 

It’s soft and unsure at first, two new people trying to find the right rhythm. But it’s warm and chaste and slow, gentle exhalations against one another’s cheeks as it draws on longer and longer. Yuri’s hand cradles him, thumb stroking against the curve of Yuuri’s ear reverently and long fingers gently carding through the hair at his neck. Angling him higher, pressing their lips together slowly, moving from top to bottom lip and back again like he can’t decide the best way to kiss Yuuri. 

 

They part but don’t move away, lips still close enough to brush as they share breaths. Yuuri’s heart is tripping in his chest, and he’s tingling all the way down to his toes. Their hands are still intertwined, both of them squeezing and holding on instinctively. 

 

Yuuri glances up and bites his lip at the shadows playing in Yuri’s eyes, the triumph and affection and yes, even a little bit of lust. Which certainly seems to grow as peridot eyes sweep down to where he’s biting at his kiss-swollen lips. Seeing him so captivated from such a simple kiss gives Yuuri confidence, even though his legs feel weak and he’s leaning into the hand Yuri has yet to remove from his cheek. 

 

“Kiss me again?” Yuuri breathes, scarcely giving each word its due distinction. He can’t help but phrase it like a question, like Yurio might have suddenly changed his mind between the first kiss and the second. But Yurio simply flexes his fingers against the side of Yuuri’s neck, overwhelmed, and slides his palm slowly down the length of his throat. Yuuri shudders, lets him slowly explore, because his own free hand is doing the same. Tracing shyly up to Yuri’s shoulder, steady and strong, only to slide back down to rest over his lean chest. 

 

Yurio slides his hand back into dark hair, using the heel of his palm to guide Yuuri into an arch against his body, and leans down and kisses him again. 

 

There’s less restraint this time, as they pant softly against each other, lips shyly parting as they kiss but not moving much further. Yurio’s teeth tug gently on Yuuri’s bottom lip, and he whimpers, fisting Yurio’s jacket and finally tugging him closer. He may need to take things slowly, but he was still a man, and he was undoubtedly drowning in the smell of Yurio’s cologne and the pressure of his lips driving Yuuri to pleasant madness. He yanks Yurio down, as if they can be any closer, and kisses him fiercely. It’s easy to lose steam though, tentatively brushing his tongue against the fullness of his partner’s mouth in nervous question. 

 

Yurio groans and hikes him closer, only bolstered by Yuuri’s boldness instead of intimidated. Yuuri whimpers as the tables are turned right back around, Yurio sucking gently on his tongue before pressing their lips together and sliding his tongue into Yuuri’s mouth, like he intends to count every single tooth. Yuuri is left a softly whining mess, and he’s surely stretching out Yurio’s collar with how he’s pulling so desperately on the cloth but he just can’t bring himself to care.

 

And yeah maybe they’re getting swept away, undermining the sweetness of their first kiss with this but Yuuri can’t find himself bothered in any way, shape, or form. When they part their lips are both glistening, panting in the quiet of the twilight and cheeks heated. Yuuri feels rather dazed as Yurio smirks and lets his hand move to gently squeeze Yuuri’s cheek. 

 

“A kiss before the first date, how bold,” Yurio teases, as if his lips aren’t dark with kisses as well. Yuuri blushes nonetheless, using the grip on his shirt to push him back a few steps. Yurio won’t let go of his hand though, and tugs him right back along. 

 

Yuuri takes a steadying breath and looks up at the taller man, his heart squeezing with the hints of nervousness on his features. It’s endearing, because while Yurio was quite charming, it also meant that he wanted this sincerely. Maybe Phichit was right. 

 

“Does this mean...I mean, are we…?” Yuuri feels frustrated by his failing words,  _ again.  _ Why can’t he just fucking  _ say it? _ So he forces himself to spit it out.

 

“Will you be my boyfriend? Or...date, or whatever you want!” Of course he can’t just go out and say it rationally without blubbering nervously, still somehow doubtful of what Yurio wants. Yurio tugs on their joined hands, face sobering quickly. 

 

“Katsuki Yuuri, I am going to date the hell out of you.” 

 

Yuuri can’t help but smile at that, beaming uncharacteristically. Yurio smiles widely in turn, and they go laughing back down the street to their hotel. 

 

Yuuri smiles all night, and falls asleep with Yurio’s jacket held tight in his hands. 

 

\------

 

The free skate looms ahead of him like a great mountain, and the thought of climbing it makes his knees shake minutes after crawling out of bed. He checks his phone, and can't help but grin at the excited all-caps keyboard flailing Phichit had sent him during the night. He'd fallen asleep after excitedly confessing what had happened, because Phichit had been dropping very unsubtle hints about wanting to know. Like he'd foreseen the tension finally breaking during the Final. Yuuri wouldn't be very surprised to learn his best friend was romantically omniscient. 

 

It helped ease the nerve tightening like pulsing veins across his chest, to see Phichit’s excitement in a multitude of texts after his own. 

 

He'd kissed Yurio last night. He'd let himself trust in the talented, hotheaded, gorgeous man Yurio was becoming. And it was scary, and intimidating, and terrifying, and every other adjective he could possibly conjure. 

 

Yet there he was grinning like a loon in the bathroom mirror. 

 

_ I'm so screwed,  _ he thinks cheerfully. 

 

Fear and trepidation had no place here, not yet. Yuuri would face them both in time, would convince himself to try and communicate his worries to Yurio. It would likely end in disparaging comments, but they needed to know what each person needed. Or maybe he was just nervous about being in a relationship again. Ugh. 

 

He's halfway through getting dressed when there's a loud knock on his door. Yuuri startles and yelps, tripping over his pants and falling gracelessly to the floor. 

 

“O-One second!” He groans, shuffling his pants up before standing again. Whatever grace he had on the ice certainly didn't transfer to simple daily tasks. 

 

Yuuri yanks the door open, disheveled and still a little groggy, wondering if it's room service or something. Instead he glances up and Yurio is smirking down at him, far too put together for such an early hour. 

 

“Yura?” It trips dumbly off his tongue, sluggish brain making odd noises in confusion. 

 

“Well? I know the doors open differently in Japan but it’s still a door,” Yurio’s mouth is twitching at the edges, trying to smile past his raised brow. “Gonna let me in?”

 

Yuuri moves back, and bites his tongue so that he won’t stick it out childishly. It reminds him oddly of Mari, how he always wants to sass right back at the younger man. It’s also freeing, to have that kind of spitfire confidence. 

 

Yurio walks in and immediately lounges back on Yuuri’s bed as Yuuri relocks the door. Then he turns around and a strangled shriek dies in his throat as Yurio turns and gleefully spots his jacket tucked up against Yuuri’s pillow. Yuuri lunges across the room and leaps onto the bed as Yurio grabs at it eagerly, a mischievous curl to his lips.

 

“NO NO IT’S NOT WHAT YOU THINK GIVE IT BACK!” Yuuri shrieks as he tackles Yurio back against the bed, grappling for the fabric. Yurio gurgles in surprise and jerks it farther away, both awkwardly elbowing and squirming as they fight for it. Yurio has longer arms, and Yuuri despairs as he pushes his toes against the bed and strains to reach. Yurio stubbornly arcs backward further, until he’s almost hanging halfway off the bed trying to keep it away. 

 

“You slept with it!” Yurio is crowing repeatedly, smugness all over his features while Yuuri shakes his head rapidly, wishing he could somehow disconnect his brain stem and not have to deal with this catastrophe. 

 

“I didn't!” He urges, elbowing Yurio in the ribs as he tries to force his arm back down. Yurio jolts and grunts, arm spasming to instinctively try and drop it to protect himself, but Yuuri gives up quickly after. Finally slumps and just buries his face in the fold of his arm and the front of Yurio’s shirt, where he doesn't have to see the bold fabric or Yurio’s ecstatic teasing grin. He can’t even be embarrassed by how closely they’re pressed, the way he can hear the thrum of Yurio’s heart beneath his palm, or the way they fit so well together. 

 

“I’m going to die,” Yuuri mumbles pathetically into Yurio’s chest, sliding his hands down and dragging them down his face, groaning.  _ At least Victor never found my posters. This is so much worse! Oh my god! _

 

“You can't die, stupid. Who else am I supposed to compete against? I need to win this back from you anyway, huh?” Yurio grins, swinging the jacket from the tips of his fingers before lifting it and draping it around Yuuri so that it covers them both. 

 

“At this rate you won't get it back until I retire,” Yuuri snarks weakly, still petulantly hiding his face. Yurio shakes them both with his chuckle, and tentatively places an arm around the dip of Yuuri’s lower back. Yuuri smiles to himself. It's endearing, because Yurio is so confident - and had demonstrated that the previous night, as Yuuri would not soon forget - but he was still so hesitant with other things. Yuuri didn't know why, but he didn't mind the slower pace. 

 

“Don't think I'll give up gold that easy, just because you broke some stupid record.” Yuuri smiles at the grumbling and finally lifts his head. This was safe territory, non jacket related.

 

“Stupid record? But Yura, that was  _ your _ record,” Yuuri grins evilly, enjoying the tick that immediately appears at the corner of the young man’s mouth, the way his eyebrows expressively let Yuuri know  _ exactly  _ how Yurio feels about that reminder. 

 

Yuuri squawks as Yurio throws him sideways and tussles with him, jerking the jacket around until he has a hold on both the arms. Then swiftly ties them together over Yuuri’s elbows and across his stomach, perching smugly over Yuuri’s hips and effectively pinning his wrists to his thighs.

 

“What were you saying, katsudon?” Yurio purrs, triumphant and entitled. Yuuri just stares at him, cheeks slowly creeping red at the suggestive position. So he twists his wrist and pinches at Yurio’s ass, making him jerk and shout, losing his balance just enough for Yuuri to buck his hips and send him toppling down to the bed next to him. 

 

The jacket is lost somewhere on the bedspread as Yuuri untangles the arms and quickly leaps at Yurio, shoving at him as they both go sliding off the bed, hollering and laughing. 

 

Yuuri’s neatly made bed is a disaster zone, his downstairs neighbor probably hates him, and he’s sure to have a few nice bruises, but he’s laughing so hard his side hurts but he just can’t stop. As they pinch, shove, and wrestle each other in the mess of the sheets on the floor, Yuuri revels in Yurio’s rare laughter.  _ Who cares about a few bruises? _

 

“Eat your words, Plisetsky!” Yuuri crows between his laughter, yanking a pillow down from the bed to shamelessly beat Yurio with it. Yurio blocks his face until Yuuri is swinging the pillow back up and then jerks up from his knees and lifts Yuuri in a rush of muscle and adrenaline, shoving him back down onto the bed and wresting the pillow from his hands. And Yuuri receives a nice dose of Russian revenge with a mouthful of fluffy pillow. 

 

“I give! Aunt! Aunt!”

 

“It’s uncle, stupid!” Yurio laughs, tossing the now-misshapen pillow to the side to finally relent. He flops down next to Yuuri, legs still tangled. 

 

They look  _ wrecked. _ Both heads of hair are tangled, though Yurio’s with his length is inevitably worse. Though the discarded sheets had prevented most of the carpet burn, it still reddens their elbows and knees. Their cheeks are flushed and they’re sure to have bruises by morning - luckily the skating required of them would be over. With wrinkled clothes on top of a destroyed bed, they look like they either just had wild sex or tried their hands at gymnastics. 

 

Yurio turns over on his side, and Yuuri realizes he’d been staring and feels his cheeks try to go red again. It’s a curse, really, but for once he doesn’t look away. Yurio’s slanted stare is lazy and content, his large body seeming at home on the rumpled sheets. His shirt is tugged up around his navel, and the cut of his hips disappearing under his jeans would be distracting at any other time. But...not right now.  _ Why do I keep being surprised by the fact that he’s grown up? _

 

“You’re going to win gold out there,” Yurio says quietly, out of the blue. Yuuri blinks stupidly, and then just...stares. His chest feels tight, but it’s not like his panic attacks. It’s...he’s not sure how to even describe it. Pride? Flattery? 

 

His family had always been supportive, even if they had never really  _ pushed _ him. They’d been happy with whatever he achieved, big or small, and if he wanted to give up they’d let him. It was why Victor had been such a novelty in his life, someone who pushed and demanded more of him. Victor’s belief in his abilities had been even harder to comprehend, and he hadn’t accepted it until very recently. 

 

But  _ Yurio’s  _ faith in him? When he had always been supremely competitive even when Yuuri was still pining over Victor in Russia and the two had been friends. It’s like a fault line in the earth shifting and giving way, and the waters that crash over him send him spinning and lost at sea. Yurio who for so long in his petulant, bitter youth had insulted him? Now, as a man with maturity on his side, as a skater who challenged Yuuri to claw for the gold for the past two years, as an athlete and a competitor…

 

And he was so  _ sure. _

 

“Yuuri.” 

 

Yuuri tears his eyes up from some aimless direction to look at Yurio again, who is staring calmly back. Intent. Always so intent. Never half-hearted in any aspect of life. 

 

“You  _ are. _ Your program is insane, and I hate you for your skill sometimes. And I hate Victor for ever teaching you how to jump because your performance elements are already fucking off the charts, but you’re going to win. Even if you don’t believe you. Because your program is about you, and I’m...y’know...proud to be competing against you,” Yurio falters towards the end, embarrassment taking over as Yuuri’s eyes go damp and shiny. Reverting back to natural defensiveness that he’ll never fully lose. 

 

Yuuri reaches out and grabs Yurio by the back of the neck, awkwardly clambering half onto his side before leaning in and kissing him stupid. 

 

It’s a heady, intense pressure of lips. Yuuri’s emotions are a tangled ball in his throat, and Yurio is more surprised than anything but he welcomes Yuuri’s touch easily. 

 

Yuuri isn’t good at talking. He’s too shy to say or confess a lot of the things on his mind. He wasn’t even very good at speaking with actions either, not when it required a certain level of boldness. But Yurio was fire, and he’d always been a lump of coal. He had never anticipated the reality that Yurio’s heat would transfer to him, make him a better person, make him steadier and stronger. That a coal could ever be more than a lump of rock, that it could be a fire starter. The very fundamental basis of heat and hearth. 

 

Yuuri pulls back slowly, lips parting and gently rubbing his nose against Yurio’s in a brief kiss of skin. Until closed eyes finally open and meet, and Yuuri smiles.

 

“You’re sweet, Yura,” he whispers, enjoying the way Yurio’s ears go pink and he grumbles softly like he can somehow deny any appearance of softness or affection. Then he taps his hand hard against Yurio’s cheek, eyes glinting and mouth curling like the devil itself.

 

“And you’re right - I’ll see you standing at bronze today, yeah? I can’t wait to tell Victor what you said!”

 

He kisses Yurio’s nose and hops off the bed, enjoying the choked noise of insult from behind him as he races for the bathroom and the locked door it provides, laughing all the way as Yurio hurls insults at him. 

 

Yuuri leans back against the door, smiling as Yurio jiggles the doorknob angrily. Waits until there’s silence, and takes comfort from the empty room and the door behind him to finally speak. Letting the acoustics of the room carry his words out to where Yurio is still standing.

 

“I...I’ll be skating for myself, Yura. But I’ll skate for you too. I want to win gold that way.”

 

A soft thunk comes across through the door, and he can almost imagine Yurio pressing his forehead to the grain of it, the wide span of his spread fingers over the wood. 

 

“Now who’s being sappy, katsudon?”

 

Yuuri laughs and pushes off from the door to start getting ready.

 

“I’ll wait for you so we can head down together, don’t take forever,” Yurio calls offhandedly as he walks away from the door, voice harder to hear as he travels. Yuuri knows he means breakfast, but it feels like a lot more than that. It feels like devotion in the form of roughhousing and support and kisses. 

 

He smiles shyly into his toothbrush. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies! Sorry for the wait this time around, I didn't necessarily struggle with this chapter but health has been taking up a lot of time recently. Thank you all so much for your well wishes! If you ever want updates on the story's progress, I made a new blog for my writing and art [here](https://axon-a.tumblr.com/) if you want to follow me or ask questions or even request a fic! 
> 
> In regards to this chapter - definitely a lot more playfulness, cheese, and emotions! I hope I kept it realistic while still delivering the cuteness everyone wants and needs haha! This is how one of my own relationships went down, so I do draw inspiration from real life as much as I can. 
> 
> Yuuri breaking a world record would not be too much of a leap really, not with so many quads that he can push to the second half and quadruple flips and salchows on his side! I wanted to explore competitive relationships between all the boys, too. I hope you like my little inclusions of Victor! And Georgi, because I actually love him a lot. 
> 
> Also I LOVE jacket sharing. I even drew an ugly little sketch on my writing blog of Yuuri in Yurio's jacket because I am a SUCKER for clothes swapping and Lulu is too. We enable each other. 
> 
> I also hope the kiss scenes went down well, I liked some of them better than others but OH WELL. I'm a little rusty. Which is why you'll probably see some smut offshoots for this world once I get to sequel-land. Just one more chapter and Wildflowers as the first installation will be done! And then we can move on to the sequel, which will be a little more serious in some aspects, definitely a lot more exploratory and some world and character building that I unfortunately could not expand on in Wildflowers because of the precedence of the initial character re-aligning from show to fic and the building of relationships. So I'm really excited for the sequel and I hope you all are too!


	10. Arbutus -- You're the Only One I Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shirtless version of the kiss in France from these two chapters! I hope you like it!

Yurio is laying back on the bedspread, staring at the ceiling and idly touching his lips. He can still feel the curve of Yuuri’s trembling smile there. The weight of Yuuri’s gratitude had floored him, left him stunned and stupid beneath his kiss. And here he was still touching his lips like it had been his first, listening to the soft sounds of the shower in the other room. Wondering what the hell he was doing. 

 

Not that he didn’t know or was regretting anything that had happened, damn it. He’d been playing over the kisses from the previous night until he’d fallen asleep, grinning like a fool. 

 

He’d looked up to Yuuri for years, and though he’d fumbled most of their initial friendship, he’d...truly fallen for the man. Maybe it was too soon to call it love, but he could sense it definitely heading that way. When Yuuri danced on the ice, powerful and beautiful. When he blushed whenever Yurio leaned close, or when his eyes lit up with excitement as they explored unknown towns and tried new foods. The way he pushed and sassed, the way he looked past every barb and spike Yurio had painstakingly placed on his exterior. Yurio had never wanted to hurt someone as badly as he had wanted to hurt Victor the day he’d broken Yuuri’s heart, and he’d wanted to protect the gentle man ever since. Maybe even earlier, far earlier. 

 

He remembered the days of quietly grumbling translations when Yuuri would stare in terror at a stranger in the rink, Victor carelessly practicing on the ice. Steering him down the right streets with a gentle hand to an elbow or hip, hiding his pleasure behind soft insults as Yuuri thanked him with a warm smile. Letting Yuuri drop his feet tentatively into his lap as they indulged in secret pirozhki in Lilia’s apartment, hiding from Yakov and Victor as they inhaled shameless calories and watched spy movies. 

 

Yurio had loved Yuuri long before he’d ever realized it, and now...having him? It was so far beyond his mental grasp that he was still boggled by it. Still blown away by the kiss Yuuri had bestowed upon him, or the knowledge that Yuuri had slept with his jacket. With Victor in the way, Yurio had never even imagined that this could happen; even after somehow he had never dared to hope. A silly crush from his Junior days, fully realized and transformed into something meaningful. 

 

More than a crush now, more than an idol or a competitor or even a friend; a person who saw him, just as surely as Yurio saw Yuuri. Someone who wanted him to be successful, even when Yurio had only treated him badly back then. Someone Yurio trusted to meet his grandfather, to introduce to his favorite park, to skate with non-competitively. 

 

Yurio hadn’t realized how much he needed someone like Yuuri until he had him. And not just as a friend, as Yuuri had unfailingly been for months, but as something  _ more. _ Someone to take care of, encourage, and love. 

 

And of course there was the part of him, young and headstrong and full of hormones, that desperately wanted to throw Yuuri down into the ruined sheets and make him sing and cry past all his shyness. That craved to see his neck marked with hickies and bruises, or watch him come apart for the first time. 

 

With Otabek - and there was no shame in their youth, in their simplistic glory and their rock steady affection for one another - Yurio had not been swept away by those feelings but now he starts to wonder if he should fear that with Yuuri. Whether it is age or just something about Yuuri, Yurio can’t tell. The man infuriats him sometimes, but he grimaces as he realizes exactly why Victor had been so enchanted, why Phichit and Chris were so endeared by Yuuri. Once you saw past the invisibility he normally succeeded with, Yuuri was...captivating. A eclectic study in contrasts; shy and bold, tentative and witty, calm and explosive. Yurio sometimes wanted to scream at him, but mostly he was just helplessly drawn in by Yuuri’s magnetism. 

 

The door cracks open shyly, and Yurio shoves himself up impatiently onto his elbows, lips already parting to grouse over Yuuri’s slowness and his own hunger. Only for the words to die on his lips, as they lock eyes and both faces go pink.

 

Neither had thought about it at the time, with how Yuuri had run laughing into the bathroom, but the man had no clothes to change into. And he’s standing half-hidden behind the door, entire face blushing an attractive red that the steam could not have caused as his eyes dart from Yurio’s wide eyes to the floor. There’s a gold-trimmed white towel tied around his hips, his skin is still damp and his hair drips slowly across pale collarbones. Yurio swallows hard.  _ I’m not a teenager. I’m not a teenager. I’ve seen him in the onsen, this is nothing.  _

 

Except it’s not nothing, because Yurio had been far younger back then and they hadn’t been  _ together. _ And what a novelty that realization still was, after last night. That he was allowed to give in to his desires and stride across the room to push Yuuri against the doorframe and kiss him silly, if he so wanted.  _ Wait...I can. _

 

“Y-Yura, can you bring me some clothes?” Yuuri shyly mumbles, arm wrapped around his lean torso in a gesture of vulnerability that makes Yurio want to groan with desire. Why did he have to be so fucking cute? It was so different to Otabek, who’d had a far more dominant presence. Not that Yurio would have been put off by that, he’d topped Otabek frequently in bed, but Yuuri’s nervousness is enough to drive him pleasantly crazy. 

 

Yurio stands slowly, and smirks as his hands find the discarded jacket on the bed, dragging it across and slinging it over his shoulder as he saunters towards Yuuri. The man doesn’t shrink back as much - boldness was a learned trait, and Phichit had treated him lovingly enough to inspire a certain confidence in Yuuri. But his skin still shivers as Yurio moves closer, his eyes still drop as Yurio stares at him. Electrified beneath a simple glance. 

 

Tauntingly, Yurio tugs at the jacket on his shoulder. 

 

“Still clothes,” he points out, voice dropping low. The door feels like an unfair obstruction, hiding away parts of Yuuri from his voracious stare. A shield more for Yuuri’s sake than Yurio’s but it still fails miserably as a deterrent. So he tests its bounds, stepping closer until his t-shirt darkens with stray droplets from Yuuri’s skin. Yurio lifts his hand and, nudging the door aside, slides long fingers over the fluttering muscles of Yuuri’s lower abdomen, reveling in the huff of breath and the flex of warm skin beneath his touch. 

 

“Yura,” Yuuri warns, but it’s flimsy at best and the trembling heat in his tone gives him away. Dark cinnamon eyes stare back at him, and Yurio lets his control dissolve beneath its weight. He drags his palm in a hard swipe of friction across Yuuri’s hip to his lower back, pulling him forward until they’re touching chest to chest. Blond hair curtains around his face as he leans closer to nose at Yuuri’s neck, and he grins devilishly when the man gives a tremulous sigh and arches to provide more room. The sight of his golden hair across Yuuri’s shoulder is unbearably attractive, and Yuuri gives a tiny whimper in his throat that he clearly tries to stifle.  _ You faker, _ Yurio thinks gleefully as he teases with just the tip of his nose and the tickle of his breaths. 

 

“Yuuri,” he mimics back in a patronizing purr. Like he doesn’t know exactly why they can’t do this right now. He could blame his youth and Yuuri’s addictiveness, but he is entirely unapologetic.

 

“We don’t have time -” Yuuri tries to press, though his grip on the door is wavering and he’s still pressing into Yurio’s light touches. Ever the rule follower, even when he was just as tempted. Yurio presses his lips to the dip of shoulder beneath his mouth, laves his tongue and teeth across pristine skin and cuts the words from Yuuri, listens to his protest dissolve into a stuttering gasp. He presses his fingers into Yuuri’s sides, sucking lightly so as not to cause a mark, exploring the clean skin eagerly until Yuuri finally gives. 

 

Yuuri releases the door, hands finally lifting to touch Yurio back. One at the back of his neck, to shamelessly (or perhaps shamefully, for all his protestations) press Yurio closer. The other slides up his shirt, doing some exploration of his own. Yurio huffs out a soft groan as those fingers play at his waistband, dance up and down his abs, drag light nails down his torso. In retaliation Yurio brings his other hand forward, gently digging his fingers into Yuuri’s hair and pulling until he has more room to nibble and suck. He’s afraid to scare Yuuri off. But the man gives a soft moan at the hand buried in his hair, and so Yurio flexes his fingers, grinning against pale skin when Yuuri presses harder at his neck.

 

Soft voices drift down the hallway outside their door, and Yurio nips beneath Yuuri’s ear in irritation. Wishing for more time to taunt and tease. Instead he redirects, pushing Yuuri straight and kissing him in a hot exchange of parted lips and flickering tongues. Not much farther than that, though Yuuri is the first to try until Yurio pulls gently on his hair and backs away to bite at those frustrating lips. 

 

“We have to go eat,” he rumbles softly, words brushing their lips together. Yuuri looks drunk, completely stupefied, and Yurio can’t help the smug smirk that crosses his face. Finally takes the jacket off his shoulder and drapes it around Yuuri’s bare shoulders, pleased with the soft red marks he’d left. They would fade by performance time, but they were still pleasing to view. 

 

“R-Right,” Yuuri stumbles, pupils blown wide. He clutches at the jacket and seems to shake himself awake, a scolding look already forming on his face as he shoves Yurio away from the bathroom door towards the main entrance. 

 

“Get out! You’re too distracting,” he scolds, but his cheeks are warm and his hands linger. Yurio just keeps smirking, pleased with himself. Flicks Yuuri’s nose and saunters out the door, already pulling his phone out from his back pocket. 

 

“Now you really have to hurry up,  Зайчонок,” Yurio teases as he closes the door, reveling in the frustrated noises he hears as it swings shut, the same forlorn cries begging for translation that he won’t answer. 

 

When they’re sitting in the banquet hall eating a late breakfast, Chris winks at the pair of them and runs a hand down the side of his neck as he stares at Yuuri knowingly. Yuuri turns bright red and shoves his collar up higher, glaring weakly at Yurio. All he does is laugh. Damn if he doesn’t catch Yuuri’s lips twitching as though they might smile too.

 

That’s what he got for being so tempting. He should have known Yurio would be far more possessive than Victor or Phichit, and he couldn’t wait to make a habit of it. 

 

\------

 

They return to the rink together, and Yurio can’t help but grin to himself as Yuuri giggles and sneaks photos of Yakov and Celestino catching up and guffawing behind them, surreptitiously sending them to Phichit and the Russian team. Yurio didn’t have such restraint - those were definitely going to end up on Instagram. Or in his blackmail folder, for days when Yurio didn’t want to go to practice. Oooh, or even Lilia, now that would be fun.  _ Oh the options. _

 

The stands vibrate with noise as they walk down through the cordoned off areas, ISU officials waving them through checkpoints until they arrive in the back hallways for changing and stretching. Yakov throws him exasperated glances as he hounds Yuuri wherever he goes, even though he manages to grumble a few hellos to the skaters that come up to speak to the soft-spoken man. Yurio just glares at him in return, though it’s weak at best, not at all up to his usual standards. He doesn’t want to entertain the reminder that the competition would be over soon, and refused to even think beyond _ that.  _ If he wanted to follow Yuuri’s heels, he would. 

 

As the clock winds down, they stretch together. Yurio keeps him engaged in minor conversation, watching from the corner of his eye whenever the tension builds too high in his lean shoulders or when his eyes go distant. Talking, being with Yurio, it seems to help. And no, it doesn’t make him feel  _ mushy  _ inside or something to know that he can help in this way. Still...it’s an honor, more than anything. He’d always wanted to see Katsuki Yuuri skate with no boundaries or weights to keep him from flying, and he was helping to make that a reality. 

 

They help each other stretch, and Yurio glares at anyone who dares to look their way as he drags Yuuri’s hips farther back into his own, pressing his chest down and listening to the soft controlled breaths Yuuri exhales as he eases down beneath Yurio’s weight further between his spread legs. It stretches both of them, and Yurio gets to rest his cheek against the slope of Yuuri’s shoulder, long ponytail draped over their shared shoulders. 

 

“Chris is staring,” Yuuri laughs quietly resting his forearms against the floor as he stretches. Yurio leans forward to keep him stretching, and his eyes flick over to where Chris is working his arms and shoulders loose. The man winks, that same knowing smile from breakfast on his face, and Yurio can swear that he’s... _ sparkling _ somehow. Gross. 

 

“Everything he sees is sex, so I’m not surprised,” Yurio huffs in response, thumbs sliding gently over the backs of Yuuri’s exposed wrists, his country jacket rucking up as he slides deeper into the stretch. Yurio was not as flexible as he had been when he was 14, and he’s envious that the older man is still so limber. And maybe he glares at Chris a little for staring, because he knows damn well what the man is thinking and that’s  _ his _ boyfriend. 

 

Boyfriend. Damn. It still sounded so weird in his head, but it gives him a sharp thrill nonetheless. 

 

They move on to the next stretch, sometimes helping one another, and Yurio can’t help but smirk when Yuuri smacks him in the chest for suggesting hamstring stretches and standing splits, muttering about pervertedness under his breath. He can’t help it, really - Yuuri’s red ears are too cute, and it’s easier to distract him by embarrassing him. 

 

Inevitably though, the time will come when their names are called. They will lace their skates tightly, hand their guards to their coaches, and display a year’s worth of work in four and a half minutes. Not all of them will manage to succeed, and nobody who watches them will know the evenings spent biting back tears and tapeing feet, sinking into ice baths with gritted teeth or wincing through the next morning after a bad landing.

 

It’s easy to get discouraged in the face of that. Yurio’s competitive nature keeps him afloat through the worst of it, but he can see the way it tears into Yuuri as the clock ticks down, and his efforts become less and less effective. Celestino is watching him silently from the wall opposite, something close to sympathy in his gaze, or perhaps it’s pity. Yurio wants to scream at him, because he can’t help but still hold a grudge against the man for not fighting for Yuuri when he was originally his coach. For not trying harder to help Yuuri’s confidence, for giving up on him when he should have seen the talent practically living and breathing in Yuuri’s body. Maybe Yurio hadn’t treated him well either, but he is  _ fixing  _ it now, he’s  _ trying _ . There is nothing he regrets more than how he’d treated Yuuri at his first Grand Prix, and maybe he was hypocritical to want to hold Celestino accountable for the same, but Yurio didn’t care. He could hold a grudge as much as he wanted, especially when the Italian’s sympathetic stare made him feel useless and irritable. 

 

When it’s Yuuri’s time to go out, Yurio comes with him. Yakov trails behind like he was anticipating this, and Victor just smiles wistfully after them, something tired in his expression that Yurio doesn’t want to see. Because this is  _ his _ job now, his right, his  _ honor.  _ Yuuri was a flawed, imperfect man, and Yurio had signed on for that beneath buttery warm streetlamps. Stamped his approval into the curve of Yuuri’s smiling lips, and kissed away any doubts he may have had. His grandfather was right - love isn’t easy. So when Yuuri’s hands tremble as they go through the curtains, Yurio laces their fingers together and holds on tight. And maybe Yuuri still shakes, still stares out at the ice like he’s watching his own demise on rerun, but he squeezes back just as hard. 

 

As Yuuri begins to lace his skates, Yurio sits beside him. He’s not Victor, who helps him lace his skates and imparts perfectly timed wisdom like a balm for Yuuri’s nerves. He’s not Phichit, who hugs and exudes calmness and sincerity, distracting with inside jokes and silly selfies. 

 

He’s just...Yuri. 

 

Maybe that will be enough.

 

As the skater before Yuuri exits the ice, Yurio turns to face him. Their hands are interlocked, had reached for each other the minute his laces had neatly tied themselves. Clasped, they’re hidden between their thighs, away from prying eyes and too many cameras. The hold is secret, unassuming, unboastful, a connection from hand to hand that needs no audience to be stunningly, reassuringly real.

 

“No matter how you skate, you still broke a world record. You always had a better grasp on love than I did, even in Barcelona.” Their eyes meet, and Yuuri takes a deep wavering breath like he’s finally managed to get his head above water. Yurio isn’t the type to pull him in and kiss him like Phichit or even Victor might have. Instead they hold hands, eyes meeting and catching, and Yurio squeezes one last time as the announcer calls Yuuri’s name across the speakers.

 

He stands and escorts Yuuri to the opening, Celestino wandering after him like Yurio has more place here than he does.  _ Because I do, _ Yurio huffs.

 

Yuuri steps onto the ice, hands trailing along the rinkboards as he comes right back to Yurio. His chest feels tight, and wonders how Victor could ever have turned Yuuri away. Not when he was gazing up at Yurio like he had all the answers in the world, like he was the only person out of thousands in the stadium. How could Victor have stared into those beautiful eyes, practically crying out their devotion, and not fallen in love? Yurio did not have that kind of power. So he leans across the rinkboard and gently brushes his lips across Yuuri’s cheek, hiding behind the motion and the trail of his blond hair.

 

“Four and a half minutes, Зайчонок. Don’t keep me waiting, okay? I need to at least try and get my jacket back so Yakov won’t kill me.” And he smiles and withdraws, already content with any medal he’s awarded so long as he gets to see Yuuri dance the best program he was capable of. If it could move him as his short program had, Yurio would take silver and think it an appropriate fate.

 

Yuuri smiles like the sun peeking through clouds, tentative and warm. Unsure of himself still, but finally capable of breathing with those words. Without a word he takes his glasses off, folds them, and places them trustingly in Yurio’s hands. Then he turns and skates away into the center, and Yurio watches him go proudly. 

 

_ And they call  _ _ me _ _ an ever-evolving monster. _

 

\------

 

Yuuri does not have the lights to hide behind this time. He is in full view, beneath fluorescent lights that make the threads of his costume shimmer. He is grateful for his lack of glasses, because he can’t bear to see all the faces as he lets the glass box around his heart shatter. Yurio’s sharp green eyes seem to cast a reflection across his gaze, like staring into a light too long and blinking to see ghosts of it. 

 

_ I don’t love him yet. But I could. I could. I could.  _

 

_ I can. I just have to try.  _

 

The music starts, and he lets the strings of the violin transform into one of a puppeteer, pulling him around the ice. It’s not any easier to recall Victor here, on the ice where he’d learned to love him as a child. So he lets that pain out. Reflects like a mirror until the entire audience can see the myriad of emotions Victor had inspired in him for years. The heartbreak is not fresh any longer, tiny stitches spun from spider's silk marking the beginning of healing. But skating would always go hand in hand with Victor, even if not romantically. 

 

The transition is not easy. He does not wobble as he slides into his lunge, pressing his gloves to his breast and trying not to shiver at the sensation of blood he can feel on his hands. Nights spent pressing his hands into his chest as if to break the iron chains of anxiety keeping him from breathing. Even more nights with Phichit’s hands wrapped around his as he tried to claw through the stubborn guardian of his ribcage to try and quell the ache of his heart after Victor’s actions. 

 

As he lifts into his triple axle -  _ it’s okay, I can do this in my sleep, take a breath  _ \- the story seems to fast forward. Things had...changed. 

 

Phichit is still there, in the long sweeps of his skates across the ice, the flit of a smile on his lips. Enlightening, healing. But as the music kicks up right towards the end, he does not dance out of some sort of spite or desire to reclaim the quad flip for himself at the peak of it all. 

 

_ Warm jackets that hold the last vestiges of cologne.  _

 

_ Long hair that tickles his neck and cheeks as they cling to one another.  _

 

_ Fingers brushing across wet plates as they exchange hands, the steady rhythm of washing and drying.  _

 

_ The scrape of skates on ice, raucous laughter and taunts as they forget athletics for a moment.  _

 

_ “I’m not giving up. I don’t care how long it takes.” _

 

_ Pressing his weight into arms that won’t let him fall, spinning across polished floors hand in hand. _

 

_ Glowing streetlamps, unsure French, chapped lips and first kisses. _

 

There’s no need for vindication anymore. His ending is not a jab at the world, a sword planted into the earth in a vow of hope and struggle. Because this is not an echo of Victor anymore. There is no ghost hanging over his shoulder anymore. 

 

He skates with a wavering smile on his face, little sparklers in his veins. His ending would not ring hollow or yearning, and he launches into his quadruple flip without  _ caring  _ whether he lands it competitively. Because the connections the jump holds to Victor sever the second his blades kiss the ice in sweet departure. It’s  _ his  _ now. 

 

As he glides low out of the jump, he lifts his arms to the stadium and circles the rink, hearing the early cries that swell in undulating chorus. Reacting to the way he’d scratched out the ending in his own book, penning in a new story instead of a conclusion. 

 

Love may have begun with Victor Nikiforov, but it did not end there. 

 

\------

 

Yurio does not realize his cheeks are wet once more until Georgi gently nudges him on his way to Yakov, and wipes them away furiously once he feels them. Because Yuuri had  _ done it.  _ There were small errors in the technicalities of his movements, but Yurio couldn’t care less for the thoughts of the judges. Not when he’d just witnessed a quiet sonnet dedicated to  _ him.  _ Not in its entirety, for even Yurio couldn’t stroke his ego so much when he was simply the one lucky enough to have Yuuri  _ now.  _ Others had come before him, had set the stage for their story together. And Yurio would not let those curtains fall. Not after this. Not after  _ Yuuri.  _

 

Yuuri looks decidedly unsteady as he moves towards the kiss and cry, and Yurio jerks when Celestino presses a warm hand to his shoulder. A sneer instinctively playing at his lips, but the man merely jerks his chin towards the kiss and cry with a smile. Yurio doesn’t need his  _ approval _ , but he takes it nonetheless and goes jogging for the exit. 

 

The screams of the crowd and the announcer’s voices booming over the speakers nearly deafen him, but he cries out anyway. He’s calling Yuuri’s name until the man blindly turns his head towards his voice, and Yurio’s chest tightens. His pace quickens, Yuuri’s skates hasten to cut across the ice, and Yurio catches Yuuri when he stumbles over the ledge in his blurred post-performance haze. 

 

Kissing has no place here, Yurio is both too possessive and too shy to ever go such lengths, but he hugs Yuuri tight in his arms. It steadies them both, as it had when he’d broken the world record. They cling to one another, until Celestino gently clears his throat and smiles as he waves Yuuri’s skate guards. Yuuri has to lean back against the rinkboards to get them on, tremors all down his arms, but he looks relieved. Unburdened.

 

Yurio desperately wants to know what was going on in his head out there, want to ask Yuuri then and there but he know’s the question is too invasive. Whatever had happened out there on the ice--no matter what influence he’d had on it-- meant a hell of a lot to Yuuri. It  _ belonged _ to Yuuri. And yet the entire  _ world _ had seen it, and they barely even knew the man on any personal level. 

 

There was no way Yurio was getting his jacket back under the stipulation Yuuri had teasingly set. 

 

When Yuuri’s score comes through with a dazzling 208.97, he doesn’t cry. He leaps up onto his skates and lifts his hands into the air and yells his triumph, and Yurio has never been more enamored with the man. 

 

The combined total is 321.32, bumping his and Yurio’s neck-and-neck scores from Barcelona down a notch. He’s shining like a star, glowing from the inside out, and Yurio finds himself a little stunned at his great good fortune to be so close to witness the light that radiates from Yuuri. He leans back and smiles to himself as the crowds go wild at his combined score. As they move out of the kiss and cry, Yurio’s name is called across the speakers for the lineup, and Yakov appears like a grumpy lump at his elbow. 

 

Yurio huffs and turns away, sliding onto a bench and dragging his skates on through rote muscle memory more than anything. While he’s never been one to be nervous about performing, he can’t help but notice how he’s even calmer than normal. There’s no frenzy for the gold, and the adrenaline in his veins is cool and sharp instead of electric and jittery. Exhilarating instead of frightening. 

 

For so long Yurio had only ever lived to surpass and destroy, and he had interacted with every competitor analytically. Watching their programs only to figure out the best way to push them off the podium. He’d watched, he’d calculated, he’d ignored Yakov’s heavy sighs, and all in the name of winning.

 

Viktor was the one who cared about being sportlike and enjoyed the pressure of competition. Yurio just wanted to  _ win.  _

 

Until he had sat in the empty stands and watched a lithe body in sapphire dance across the ice, and he could hear the undercurrent of a song beneath the lilt of music across the stadium. It had been an intimate disaster, and Yurio hadn’t been able to look away. He had never cared about sequences or performance, and was too bitter and apathetic to ever want to reveal his innermost heart to a sea of faceless spectators. Yet here was this man, skating like he had a thousand stories to tell and they were overflowing the edges of his palms, drawing in the audience in a way Yurio had never managed to accomplish. He wanted to be frustrated, he  _ was _ frustrated back then, as he had been smacked in the face with his own glaring inadequacies - by a man who made  _ dead last.  _ And he had wondered, boggled, over why he hadn’t done better. Had even mused - both blasphemously and gleefully - over the very real possibility that this man could actually  _ beat _ Victor Nikiforov if he could just fix his technical elements. 

 

Yurio had never skated to anything in his heart until Yuuri came into his life. Even if Victor had made Agape for him, he never would have performed it as it should have been. Never would have won gold with it if he hadn’t so desperately wanted to keep Yuuri in the competition, if he hadn’t been inspired by his perfect scores and the overwhelming emotion he exuded both in Eros and Yuri on Ice. 

 

Sitting on the bench with his laces tied, halfway through shedding his hoodie, Yurio has to pause. Slowly he glances over at where Yuuri is shyly excusing himself from the initial crowd of reporters, unlacing his skates in contrast. He turns as if sensing Yurio’s stare, and gives an overwhelmed, heart-melting smile and a tiny wave. Yurio can’t help but smile a little and wave back as he stands and walks to the entrance, stopping only long enough to unclip his skate guards and hand them to Yakov as he moves onto the ice and hangs on the rinkboards. 

 

“Remember not to rush into your triple axel, Yura. Extend your wait time in your step sequence or you’ll lose the beat like last time. You can do this,” Yakov grunts quietly, eyes warm even as his face remains rigid and impassive. Yurio nods, and he’s paying attention  _ somewhere  _ in his head, but all he can see is Yuuri hurrying over to the entrance in his socks, too busy trying to race over before Yurio starts the program to even put on his shoes. 

 

_ God damn it katsudon stop being so cute, _ he despairs to himself. Yakov looks exasperated once more, but Yurio still isn't fooled - Yuuri had won the man over the second he'd set foot in St. Petersburg. Yakov probably liked him more than any of his own skaters. But he also knew Yurio probably would care infinitely less for his technical comments than anything Yuuri intended to say in that moment as he skids up to the rinkboards and comes face to face with Yurio. 

 

“I-I'm not great at this but -” he slides his hand to interlace with Yurio’s across the flat surface, squeezing gently and smiling the endearing, lopsided smile that always made Yurio want to kiss him stupid. 

 

“You've grown so much. Please show us?” 

 

In the grand scheme of things it's not much. But unlike Yuuri, who had needed to learn to skate for himself, that's all Yurio had ever done his entire career. And here Yuuri was, with his warm doe eyes and his glasses, ruffled hair and pink cheeks, standing in his socks squeezing Yurio’s hand with an embarrassed smile. 

 

Yurio has only ever skated for himself and for the gold. But now he intends to skate for Yuuri. Even if the man hadn't asked, had purposefully included a well-rounded ‘us’, Yurio is finally ready to do that. And maybe, just maybe, some of Yuuri’s courage from his program will rub off on Yurio. Allow him to bare his heart a little the way he never had. 

 

With a quick squeeze of the hand in his, Yurio manages a tiny smile and a nod. Yuuri’s shoulders drop in relief, pleased to have somehow said the right thing and Yurio is furiously infatuated with him. He turns and skates onto the ice, the cheers of the crowd are white noise against the backdrop of Yuuri cheering his good luck in accented Russian. 

 

The music starts, and he lets his feet guide him. 

 

Normally he wouldn't let himself slip away into his head. He always cares too much about scrutinizing every coming jump and sequence, even if he could do them in his sleep. But now he finally trusts in his body to take him where it needs to go, and focuses on his theme. Finally achieving a level of emotion that Yakov had been pushing him unsuccessfully towards for years.  _ You change people so easily, Yuuri. We all owe you so much.  _ Would he even be skating on the same ice as Victor Nikiforov without Yuuri? Would he have been strong enough to be vulnerable without Yuuri’s quiet, questionless guidance?

 

_ Growth.  _ He has grown, both in wildly difficult technical areas as his short program emphasized, but also emotionally. Loving Otabek and being loved in return. Finally achieving camaraderie with his rinkmates. Having a proper rival, a close friend who challenged him to be better just by existing. Because Yuuri had never  _ asked _ him to change. Yurio had done that on his own. 

 

Life was colored by more than bronze, silver, and gold now. Yuuri had been the catalyst to opening his eyes to every color and shade the world had to offer. The good and the bad. He lived in a more dynamic world now, and Yuuri deserved recognition for it. Even if it was just the honor of seeing Yurio out his heart into his program for the very first time, because he had no podium on which to stand and pour his heart out. He only had his skates and the language of his movements. But if Yuuri could understand him in Barcelona, begging him to stay, he would understand this too. 

 

The jumps don't need to be scrutinized in the first place, he realizes after a flawless salchow. They'd always been his strongest point, and he'd practiced them to death until his muscles knew exactly how to operate without his conscious command. And so he huffs a smile to himself and moved into his flying sit spin, the world a blur of color and motion. And somewhere out there is Yuuri. 

 

_ Is this why you had such strength in Spain? Is this how it felt to dance for Victor? _

 

He'd never skated for somebody, but instead of feeling weakened or restricted by it, it felt like he'd finally found the last piece of the puzzle for his program. 

 

His jumps actually felt freer, now that he wasn't overthinking them.  _ Do you see me?  _ It was a narcissistic thought, but he wanted Yuuri’s attention. Yuuri had written Yurio into his program, flourished ink over crisp pages to include an ending neither of them could say they hadn't anticipated. So Yurio would do the same. 

 

As he's panting in his ending pose he turns immediately to look back at the exit, and Yuuri has his hands clasped around his face.  _ What the…? _

 

Then he's planting his hands on the wall, and for a second Yurio jerks because  _ holy shit is he going to jump the fucking wall?! _ But no, he's just excitedly jumping up and down and shouting over the noise of the crowd. 

 

“YURA, すばらしい!” 

 

Yurio grins, pleasure curling in his chest like a contented cat. In fact he's a little startled because Yuuri isn't one for shouting often, and he was always too careful with his words to ever let himself slip languages. And maybe Yuuri and Victor had had their share of moments at competitions, but he doesn't care. Grabs the closest plushie on the ground and skates quickly over to the exit. 

 

He flies off the ice, ignoring Yakov’s cries about his skate guards, because he only has eyes for Yuuri. Yuuri who is spinning away from the boards and running to him as well. And Yurio doesn't pause or hesitate as he sweeps Yuuri up into his arms and off the ground, hugging him fiercely. 

 

Yuuri’s startled squeak dissolves into soft laughter as he wraps his arms around Yurio’s shoulders and squeezes. Victor and Georgi are racing over from their seats, and Yurio keeps Yuuri stubbornly in his hold as his teammates pile up against him shouting praise. Yakov looks suspiciously wet eyed, and Yurio buries his smile into Yuuri’s shoulder. 

 

_ You brought us together like this. You did this. You deserve so much more than a program skated to you.  _ And he vows to give Yuuri everything he can, everything he has to offer, because he asks for nothing. Because he'd swept into Russia like a summer wind, melting all of their frozen hearts without ever asking for thanks. 

 

Life was harder to swallow with all its vibrancy since Yuuri came into his life, but Yurio would choose it over the washed out grey and gold of his previous life a thousand times over. 

 

\------

 

Yurio  _ barely  _ beats Victor. 

 

Yuuri’s eyes shine with mirth, clearly recalling his comment about the bronze, and Yurio glares at him until Yuuri giggles to himself and turns away.

 

Victor seems ecstatic about his bronze, if only because he'd been wet-cheeked and cooing in the kiss and cry, joyous over Yurio finally opening up to the audience. Unlike the two Yuris who were inescapable sore losers, Victor lived to be kicked down a few notches. Liked to struggle for success or some bullshit. 

 

It's no surprise that Yuuri wins gold. Program sets like his were hard to come across, and he'd skated them with his heart worn on each sleeve and all across his expressive face. If he hadn't won gold Yurio’s pretty sure Victor would back him up in storming the judge’s booth. 

 

So he wears his silver proudly, and smiles as Yuuri beams through the little tears on his dark lashes that glitter like diamonds beneath the bright lights. Gold draped around his neck, successfully defending his title. 

 

\------

 

Privacy is a difficult thing to find in the aftermath of such an intense competition, and Yurio mutters darkly over the fact, ignoring Victor’s knowing grin and Georgi’s pratterings over love and all that nonsense. Yuuri was the one patient enough to listen, not Yurio. 

 

Yuuri is pulled away into interviews by his coach, and Yurio had his own to contend with. By the time he can escape, Yakov is eyeing him, and Yurio winces when he sees the man’s phone in his hand. Yurio had no doubt that Lilia was on speed dial right under his thumb as incentive to get his ass back to the hotel to get ready for the banquet. At first he balks, wanting to go hunt down his boyfriend (yep, still new and novel to say). But...well, Yuuri  _ had  _ been adorably flustered by seeing him suited up. So he grins and lets Yakov hustle him back to their rooms, already plotting in his head. 

 

Yuuri had already spoiled him with their little morning romp, and Yurio had always been known for toeing the line. 

 

\------

 

When he shows up at the banquet, hair slicked back and suit hanging in perfect angles off his body, he feels more arrogant than usual. Maybe it’s because he knows how Yuuri’s cheeks will go pink when they see each other, or maybe it’s because he’s been replaying their last dance together all the way to the banquet hall. Hoping for a repeat performance. 

 

Yurio had lived a circumscribed existence for so long. His modus operandi had been etched into his very bones, and he had lived on a singular planar surface since his rental skates touched ice for the first time. A steady rhythm of school, training, and his grandfather. Competitions, gold, boredom with the world at large. Bitter, lonely, damaged by the loss of the people around him when he was too young to try and stop any of the plans life had in mind for him. 

 

Yuuri was everything dynamic and dimensional. Yurio didn’t care about the silver resting carefully on his bedspread, because he was thinking about the implications of introducing Yuuri to his grandfather. Mind a thousand different steps ahead. 

 

So when he sees Yuuri in a fitted black vest suit, dainty glass in hand and nervously speaking with a sponsor, Yurio’s heart squeezes in his chest. God, he was so fucked over this man. 

 

Yurio knows better than to interrupt important talk with a potential sponsor, and as the new gold medalist Yuuri deserved the time to shine. So he fetches his own glass - cider this time, he notes - and wanders slowly back towards Yuuri. There isn’t anyone else in the room he really wants to speak to or dance with, and those in his friend group were either not present or lived in his country. 

 

Yuuri looks frazzled already as he walks away from the sponsor, and Yurio slides in to smoothly drop a hand to his back and steer him away from the drinks table where he seems to automatically be heading. Yuuri blinks owlishly to regain his wits, and then smiles nervously up at Yurio, hand fluttering along a crystal stem. Just as Yurio had expected his cheeks flush a mottled rose color as he takes in Yurio’s appearance.  _ Don't kiss him. Don't kiss him, Yuri, this is a public event.  _

 

“You look very handsome,” Yuuri stumbles out, and Yurio’s hand almost cramps as he fights the desire to drag him close. Or out of the room. Either worked. 

 

“So do you, it's very distracting,” Yurio’s voice is suspiciously husky. Yuuri’s ears are starting to turn red alongside his cheeks, and he nudges Yurio with his shoulder weakly, embarrassed and eyes flitting along the crowd like somebody will jump out and accuse them of something dirty. 

 

“Behave,” Yuuri mutters, but it’s weak at best. He wasn’t one for public displays of affection, not when what lay between them was so new. Still, he was leaning into Yurio’s side, letting the hand on his back guide him. That was more than enough for Yurio, though. Not that he didn’t intend to tease, because come on. He wasn’t fooling himself or anybody else with the good boy act. 

 

So he lets his fingers drag across Yuuri’s knuckles as he slips the empty glass from his hand, balancing the stem between his free fingers. His own cider still full and wrapped between a separate pair of fingers. Yuuri doesn’t even fight it, and Yurio hands off the empty glass to a waiter passing by, barely even sparing the man a glance. His arrogance was still undeniable in some ways, and he only had eyes for Yuuri. Nobody else was worth talking to anyway. 

 

Yuuri is a hot commodity that night, and Yurio can’t help but eagle eye every person who comes to congratulate him. It’s like deja vu, dragging them back to the night when Victor had broken his heart, and Yurio doesn’t care if he has to kick someone’s ass to prevent that from happening again. So if he trails Yuuri as he mingles with his friends, nervous laughs dancing around the rim of the drink he somehow still ended up with despite Yurio’s sharp eyes, well...Yuuri certainly wasn’t in any position to notice his newly acquired blond shadow. He isn’t close with Yuuri’s group of friends, but Yuuri also attracts people like a magnet. Most of them kind and exuberant enough to carry a conversation when Yurio is reticent with his words. Perhaps it’s because he’s like Yuuri in that way, though they keep to themselves for entirely different reasons, and they are already used to filling the space with sound and motion. 

 

The music finally starts up, and Yurio has plucked the empty glass from Yuuri’s fingers and is leading him towards the dancefloor before anyone can object or even realize what’s going on. Yuuri’s cheeks are a little pink with alcohol, but his eyes still shine bright with awareness. It’s enough to loosen him, make him more confident, and he steps into Yurio’s space without shame or hesitation. Careless of the fact that Yurio had been the one to initiate, to drag him away from his friends. Because Yurio is selfish, and he had given Yuuri to the public for days now. Restrained himself at the rinkside, kept his distance during the interviews. He could not stand to sit and nod and grunt pleasantries at people he didn’t want to be around, not for a moment longer. Not when  _ this _ was what he wanted; Yuuri in his arms, close enough to see the details of the shadows cast on his cheeks by his long lashes. The fond, knowing smile on his face. 

 

He is a selfish man, always had been since Yuuri had first met him, and Yurio is unapologetic about it. If it allows him to steal Yuuri’s time, to have him for himself for a few hours, then he doesn’t care who he offends. 

 

Music spirals out across the floor, lively and smooth. For a moment he’s struck dumb because he may know the basics of each dance, but he’s certainly not adept enough to discern the type of dance from the opening chords alone. 

 

Yuuri’s smile is small where it hides in the corner of his dimples, but it’s smug with uncharacteristic amusement and arrogance. And though he is in the following position, he steps forward, and his hand is insistent as he guides Yurio into the right steps. Yurio lets him, enchanted by the contentment gleaming on Yuuri’s face. Lets himself lead and follow through the steps of a foxtrot, and though his feet know the rhythm by then, he lets the gentle pressure of Yuuri’s palms tell him where to go. Little signals saying where to lead Yuuri, though the man himself is guiding their journey across the floor. 

 

Yurio drops his head, until their temples brush and black is highlighted by stray strands of gold. 

 

“You should dance more often,” he says quietly, because even here where nobody else is prying he is embarrassed to say such saccharine compliments. But it’s worth it to overcome that sensation, because Yuuri’s nose crinkles even as he smiles, eyes flickering to their feet and cheeks warming beneath the weight of his words. Still incapable of taking a compliment, still shy and unaware of how brilliantly talented he is. 

 

Sometimes Yurio despairs because he knows he’s young, and all he wants is to make Yuuri understand just how enchanting and skilled he is, but his words fail him and he doesn’t have the experience to sweep Yuuri off his feet like he deserves. But damn it he’s going to  _ try. _

 

If Yuuri could support Yurio when he was an angry, bitter, lonely teenager who only had the cruelest words to say to Yuuri when he tried to support him, then Yurio can battle his own inadequacies to give Yuuri everything he deserves. 

 

“Yura?” The tentative voice brings him out of his head, and by the flush that melts all across Yuuri’s cheeks and ears, he had been unintentionally staring. Despite his own embarrassment he can’t help his smirk at the cute sight.  _ Really, who even lets a man be that cute? _

 

“Sorry, what?”

 

Yuuri’s eyes glint, and he presses hard at Yurio’s body, pressing him into the right tempo until Yurio stumbles over the intricate steps and glares down at the dark eyes staring right back at him.

 

“I said maybe  _ you _ should  _ learn _ to dance in the first place,” Yuuri quips, a flash of ivory dancing between his lips.  _ Oh, you really never should have learned to be so sassy, it’s dangerous, _ Yurio thinks with a grin. Yuuri was just as engaging when he was full of spirit as when he was meek and humble. But it didn’t mean Yurio was just going to let him get away with it!

 

He takes control back into his hands, leading Yuuri into a dip. But when Yuuri hesitates at the proper demure length, Yurio presses his palm harder into the arch of Yuuri’s ribs, sliding lower and and lower and twisting him out until Yuuri naturally crests farther and farther over his arm. Legs juxtaposed, and Yurio stares as Yuuri just...goes with it. Arches sinuously, and even drags his knee flirtatiously up Yurio’s thighs where they bracket his own. Yurio hates him. 

 

Because the slacks he was wearing were definitely not going to hide how Yuuri was affecting him if they continued on this way. 

 

The song comes to a ridiculously ritzy end, and really, Yurio doesn’t want to be here. In fact he’d rather drag Yuuri back up to one of their rooms, and he didn’t even care about the raging hormones ultimately running rampant in his body. He mostly just wanted to undress him. Strip the jacket off his arms, kiss the cornflower blue of the veins on his wrists. Unbutton his dress shirt as Yuuri leans against his shoulder, drowsy and draped in gold. Unlace his shoes, watch pale hands fumble slacks off, uncaring as they drop to the floor in a pile that will surely leave them wrinkled. Sliding under the covers and holding on, as they had that night in Hasetsu. But without the fear, without the hurt that had made the night so memorable. 

 

Yurio could care less about sex or getting off. All he wants is to to be back in that bed with Yuuri as they had been, wrapped around each other. Where he can caress every edge of the man’s body, the edges that have helped to define his world. The safety and sanctuary to say the things he can’t say here, even if nobody was listening. 

 

_ You’re beautiful. You’re so frustratingly openhearted. You’ve changed me so much, and I didn’t think I could get this far.  _

 

_ Come home with me. _

 

But those are words for later, and so he just asks for another dance. 

 

Yuuri accepts with a smile.

 

\------

 

They do end up returning to the same room. Yuuri is swaying with too much cider, but he never strays far from Yurio’s side. Though he does whine angrily at the sensation of the elevator. Which yes, Yurio  _ does _ record on his phone, and  _ no  _ Yuuri wasn’t going to find about it. Just like he wasn’t going to find out about the other photos he’d taken at the Sochi banquet. They were for his viewing pleasure alone. 

 

And Yurio wasn’t one for the cliche of “dreams come true”, but as he swipes Yuuri’s keycard from his pocket and guides him into his room, he can’t help but believe it. Because Yuuri’s cheek is pressed against his clavicle, already trying and failing to shrug his jacket off. Yurio helps him out of it without a word, unbuttons his vest and shirt right after it. Yuuri stands complacently, muttering happy Japanese against Yurio’s skin that he can’t possibly understand. It’s veritably cooed, though, so it brings a little smile to Yurio’s face. 

 

The rest of the room is quiet in pleasant contrast. Just the shuffle of fabric and Yuuri’s mumbling. His lips tickle against Yurio’s skin, and he is loathe to step away and place their medals on the nightstand. Not that Yuuri seems to care with how he trails after him, having abandoned his slacks somewhere on the way. Yurio isn’t too surprised - Yuuri had demonstrated his magical ability to make his clothes disappear in Sochi, and while it still astounds him, he certainly won’t question how an inebriated man can accomplish such a feat. 

 

“Let’s go to bed, Зайчонок,” Yurio murmurs, shedding his own clothes and setting one knee onto the bed to guide Yuuri by the hand down onto the sheets. Yuuri goes willingly, completely trusting, and sprawls out like an octopus the second he touches the bed. He must retain some amount of awareness though, because he tugs on Yurio’s hand and appears to at least... _ try _ and scoot over, if that’s what the flailing is supposed to achieve. Even though it’s far easier for Yurio to just crawl over him to the empty space on the other side of the bed instead of waiting for the drunk man to try and make room. 

 

The sheets are cool and Yuuri’s skin is warm, and though the hotel is far too fancy to skimp on any level of heating, he still seeks the warmth emanating from the man holding onto his hand. Their ankles tangle together naturally, and Yurio suffers the chill of Yuuri’s feet in silence. By morning when sobriety returned to the man he would exact his revenge, but then and there he can’t bring himself to care. 

 

Yurio lifts a hand to gently brush his knuckles across Yuuri’s cheek, watching the man hum and smile sleepily as he lets his fingers extend to tuck dark tresses behind Yuuri’s ear. Cinnamon eyes seem to hold all the color in the room, and Yurio doesn’t even attempt to look away. It’s easier to love him here in the dark. Not because Yurio is ashamed of him, but because his affection for the man was so overwhelming in public sometimes that he didn’t want to reveal the depth of his fondness. It was far too intimate to act on his desires where others could see and hear him. 

 

So instead he gently brushes his thumb methodically across Yuuri’s cheek, watching his eyes droop farther with each gentle pass. Allows himself to smile fully, with the entirety of his tenderness gleaming in the corners. 

 

“You are too easy to love, Yuuri.”

 

The man is mostly in the arms of Morpheus by then, but he still makes a small noise and drags his eyes open to gaze up at Yurio. Turns and brushes his lips idly against Yurio’s palm and mutters, voice thick and slurred. 

 

“Tell me again? In the morning?”

 

It’s a pitifully hopeful plea, one that Yurio isn’t sure he can fulfill. But he would try, if it was what Yuuri desired. Instead he smiles and evades it for now, leaning in to kiss Yuuri’s forehead.

 

“Maybe. Go to bed, Yuuri.”

 

The man makes a pleased hum of assent, and falls quietly into sleep with little fanfare. Leaving Yurio drowsy and endeared in his wake.

 

\------

 

Yurio is awoken by the soft sounds of silverware and movement around the room. Thing is, he doesn’t  _ want _ to wake up. Unlike some people - or a certain alien, godless, terrible person - he didn’t believe in bothering to open his eyes before noon on non-practice days.  _ Especially  _ after a huge competition. And while Yuuri is being quieter than normal, it’s enough to rouse Yurio from his sleep. 

 

Blindly reaching out he drags the nearest pillow beneath his head and reluctantly cracks an eye open. 

 

Yuuri is balancing a tray of food in one hand and opening the curtains with the other, and Yurio lets himself drink in the sight of Yuuri backlit by the window. Until the man turns and realizes Yurio is awake, making a little noise of flustered surprise as the tray clanks cheerfully in his grasp. Yurio had forgotten that Yuuri came from simpler roots, from toddling around kotatsu tables and bothering guests with his smiles and hellos. It’s an adorable mental image, shattered only by the tray as it’s set gently down on the bedspread. 

 

Yuuri isn’t the type to be bold, to lean a knee on the bed and kiss Yurio awake. But he  _ is  _ the type to bring breakfast in bed, to gently awaken someone with natural sunlight and fingers stroking through hair. His own brand of quiet, humble affection. But Yurio has enough boldness for the both of them, even though his chest squirms and his cheeks go pink at the gesture. Noticing his favorite black bread and tea and smiling to himself. Leave it to Yuuri to find staple foods from his homeland in a country so far from it. 

 

So he pulls Yuuri down to the bed and grins mischievously as Yuuri’s entire face goes red when he hand feeds him. 

 

He’s not smug for long - Yuuri licks the crumbs from his lip slowly and slowly smiles, lifting a piece of bread and tapping it teasingly against Yurio’s own lips. 

 

They don’t do a lot of eating that morning, but they burn the calories they would have consumed anyway. 

 

\------

 

Goodbye isn’t easy. 

 

It wasn’t easy the first time, the second, the hundredth. But it’s harder now that he knows the shape of Yuuri’s lips under his own, the way his soft skin feels in the morning. Even just knowing their new title,  _ boyfriends _ , is enough to make the impending distance terrifying. 

 

This time it’s Yuuri who comforts, who reminds Yurio of things like Skype and FaceTime, text messages and phone calls. The time difference will make things difficult, Yurio tries to say, but Yuuri just smiles and reminds him that they’d already done it once before. Before they were together perhaps, but...it’s enough. 

 

Georgi cries when they say goodbye. Yakov squeezes Yuuri’s shoulder, and Mila hugs him tight for a few long seconds. Victor gently wraps a hand around the back of Yuuri’s neck, and though Yurio glares jealously, he goes no farther than that. They hug, and exchange quiet words that Yurio strains to hear but ultimately fails to catch. 

 

Yurio loses track of the seconds that tick by as he says his own goodbye to Yuuri; draws the jacket he’d lost to Yuuri around their heads so nobody can see, and kisses him slow and sweet. 

 

“Tell me when you get home safe,” Yuuri whispers in the shadows of the cloth that falls around them. Yurio agrees just as quietly, and kisses him again. 

 

It’s too new for further words or declarations, but Yurio can feel the phrase singing in his chest like a thousand voices humming melodiously. 

 

_ I love you, I love you, I love you. I will see you soon.  _

 

\------

 

Long distance isn’t easy, though as ever-traveling skaters they are used to distance having an omnipresent influence on their lives. 

 

Yurio redeems himself at Europeans, walking away with a proud gold. Christophe chases him into silver, and while he doesn’t win, he looks ecstatic enough to have finally beat Victor. Yurio congratulates him purely for that reason, because he’s petty as fuck.

 

He falls asleep early two days after the competition, forgetting his skype date with Yuuri. He wakes up to six missed calls and a deep, pervasive guilt. He immediately calls him back, and feels even  _ worse  _ when he sees Yuuri’s dishevelled hair and exhausted eyes.  _ How long did you stay up waiting for me, Yuuri?  _

 

It’s almost 5am in Detroit. Yurio hates himself, but he whispers quiet apologies and tries not to feel the beating in his chest when Yuuri smiles sleepily and forgives him without ever thinking twice. When he falls asleep on the phone, Yurio can’t bring himself to hang up for a few minutes. 

 

“Sleep well, katsudon,” he murmurs as he cuts the connection.

 

Yurio doesn’t forget any dates after that. 

 

\------

 

_ Yuuri [12:23pm]: Yuri you can’t cuss out people on Instagram just because they aren’t fans _

 

_ Yuri [12:24pm]: no but I can cuss out rancid meat stuffed dickbags who think they can insult you on your own posts _

 

_ Yuuri [12:28pm]: How are you even a competitive athlete, people say mean things all the time it’s normal! _

 

_ Yuri [12:31pm]: he won’t be saying mean things when i shove my skate down his fucking throat _

 

_ Thai Guy [12:42pm]: hey, wanna team up and ruin this guy’s life???? ;))) _

 

Yurio smirks. He knew Phichit was a good guy. 

 

The asshole deletes his account in twelve hours. Coward. 

 

\------

  
“Are you in our park?” Yuuri’s amused voice comes through his headphones. Yurio’s cheeks go a little pink and he scoffs, but a smile is trying to fight through onto his face nonetheless. 

 

“It was  _ my  _ park first.”

 

Yuuri’s little giggle is sweet and addicting, and Yurio smirks down at the image of him on his phone, walking down the streets of Detroit. 

 

“Are you feeding the ducks today? You know you’re not supposed to feed them bread, right?” 

 

The sincere concern in Yuuri’s voice is fucking adorable, and it’s why he has a bag of oats in his pocket that he hoists out to show gleefully to the man on the screen. The relief on his face is apparent.  _ God damn it why are you so cute?  _

 

“Wanna watch me feed them?” He offers with a smile, already anticipating the answer. Yuuri practically skips where he’s walking, phone jolting dizzyingly in his excitement.

 

“Yes please!”

 

\------

 

It’s not easy, and he feels like he needs to say that again, because it  _ isn’t.  _

 

Some days he forgets to hit send on a message, and the steady rhythm they have going is shattered. They reunite at Worlds, but it only seems to make things worse, to have Yuuri in his arms for a few days only to be separated yet again at the end of the competition. Yurio walks away with gold, and Yuuri wins bronze under Victor. Yakov cries. 

 

Yuuri sends him off to sleep over Facetime more times than he can count. Yurio hates the time difference, misses the way Yuuri’s eyelashes flutter when he’s tired, the way he hides his yawns behind his palms. 

 

They get frustrated with each other. They fight, they argue, they ignore each other for hours - if it’s bad, days - at a time. It’s imperfect, and Yurio knows that. But when he sees his grandfather’s knowing smile out of the corner of his eye, or the way Nikolai laughs when he tells him stories about Yuuri, he knows things will work themselves out. 

 

It still feels too early to use a word like love, so he doesn’t. Yuuri doesn’t either, though his concerns had cultural backing that Yurio didn’t fully understand. 

 

Still, he’s not kidding himself. Yurio knows he loves Yuuri, and that’s why the distance is so damn hard to bear. 

 

\------

 

It all comes to a head a few months in. 

 

It’s not that they can’t handle the long distance - they’re skaters, being away from home is a pseudo home on its own. It’s as easy as Yuuri’s return to Detroit had been the first time, if not easier with the dedication they have to make things work. They work around the timezones, and on days when they miss each other so much it hurts, they sacrifice a few hours of practice and endure the wrath of their respective coaches for a little longer staring at a screen. Catching up. Simply being together. 

 

Yuuri’s anxieties are nothing new. Yurio had seen it firsthand more times than he cared to count - because it hurt to see him so destroyed and brought to ruin at his own hands. To be helpless to fix anything, to quiet the screaming voices in Yuuri’s head. But he’d never seen the extent of the self-destruction Yuuri was capable of until midsummer, when he receives a tearful video message in the morning. Clearly sent late at night on the other end of the world, if the single light in Yuuri’s room is any indication. 

 

Yurio has never woken up as quickly as he does when he sees the shake of Yuuri’s shoulders and the illuminated tear stains on his cheeks from the light of his phone. 

 

“I-I can’t do this anymore, Yura, please. I...I want to break up,” is the line that sticks with him through all the rambling. He doesn’t care about the reasonings that tumble weakly from Yuuri’s lips, or the rain of apologies that eventually supersede them. Yurio doesn’t even know how many times he rewatches it, stricken. Hands shaking, refusing to accept this reality, this total devastation that comes to him in the early hours. 

 

Yuuri won’t answer his calls, or the seeming hundreds of texts that Yurio types with trembling fingers. He doesn’t stop trying until the tears stop raining and the anger and desperation pour forth, because for Yuuri to send this video was one thing, to not answer was another. Yuuri had changed him, had made Yurio a better person, but this? This he can rely on. Old, archaic, flawed as it may be, anger is an emotion Yurio can work with. It fuels him, and he screams as he barely refrains from throwing his phone at the wall and instead furiously swipes everything off his desk in a torrent of destruction. He can hear Lilia’s shout from downstairs but he doesn’t fucking care, because he’s shoving his arms through the first jacket he sees and throwing on the first pair of jeans he can find. It’s about 10 seconds until he’s slamming his door open, running down the stairs and stalking past Lilia without a care for the poisonous anger in her tone, the warble of concern that hides beneath it. 

 

“Where are you going?!” she finally shouts helplessly on the doorstep, and Yurio only pauses for a second. Doesn’t answer, just starts running. 

 

It’s not far to the rink, but he gets there in half the time it normally takes him. His throat burns from the strain, from the restraint he has to exude to hold back the tears that still linger threateningly at the edges of his vision.

 

Yurio wouldn’t have ever dared to be so open, so helpless in front of anyone two years ago. Much less his entire  _ team.  _ But he slams the doors open, ignores the anger the dies on Yakov’s lips, further ignores the gasps and cries of concern from the skaters as they practically fly off the ice to him. 

 

He looks at them, phone held limply in his hand, and the desperation overwhelms the anger for a second. 

 

“Please. You have to help me.”

 

\------

 

Phichit is the first person in Detroit who knows, because Yurio needs his help more than anyone else. So when his feet cross the threshold of the airport doors, phone screen still lit up from where he’d texted the Thai skater, he isn’t surprised to see him standing there waiting. Phichit is standing alone, infuriating empathy written all over his face as Yurio walks towards him. 

 

For a second Yurio expects some sort of threat, a shovel talk fit for the ages despite all the help Phichit had already been. But it seems like even Phichit is aware of the reality of what’s going on, and Yurio isn’t surprised by that. He was Yuuri’s best friend, had undoubtedly been present during the meltdown. Phichit is the one who knows the depths of Yuuri’s anxieties and self-hatred, and it only hardens Yurio’s resolve to see the expression on the man’s face. This means he was  _ right.  _ That he can still fix this. That Yuuri really  _ hadn’t _ meant it, as he’d suspected during the long flight where he’d watched the video over and over and over again. 

 

The car is silent the entire drive, and Phichit doesn’t even pretend to reach for his seatbelt when they arrive. Just places a hand on Yurio’s forearm, and it stills him immediately from where he is already halfway out the door. 

 

“Don’t let him win, Yuri. But be gentle. He...he really loves you.”

 

Yurio’s fist clenches at his thigh, because damn it he  _ knows  _ that. It’s why he’d flown halfway across the world to chase down the stupid, stupid man. But Phichit has a point, and so he takes a deep breath. Tries to find a level head beyond the noise of  _ get him back, come back, don’t let him go, please  _ that repeats like a scratched record in his head. 

 

He nods, and then he’s out of the car. He turns to watch Phichit pull away before jogging up the stairs to the right floor, staring at the numbers on the door. Suddenly hesitant. Doubtful. 

 

Still he lifts his hand and knocks, waits for the quiet shuffle of noise behind the door until it swings open to reveal Yuuri. He’s staring at the floor, a complete disheveled mess; dark eye circles, mussed hair, one of Yurio’s shirts draped around his frame.

 

“Did you forget something Phichi-?”

 

Until he finally looks up and they come face to face, and what little blood is left in Yuuri’s face disappears at a dizzying rate. 

 

“Yura,” he whispers in a strained voice. 

 

Yurio hadn’t planned much farther than arriving, but as he looks down on Yuuri standing in the doorway his nerves finally settle and all that’s left is determination. But he won’t push, not yet. He has to wait, find the right opening, get a few answers. So he doesn’t break eye contact with Yuuri, and he tries to be patient.

 

“Can I come in?” It’s probably the quietest tone he’s ever used in his life, but it works. Yuuri moves away from the door like a shadow, and Yurio moves through into the living room as Yuuri shuts the door slowly. Avoiding him, if the methodical slowness is any indication. And though Yurio had been preaching patience to himself, he can’t help the flare of frustration that burns in his veins. Enough to make him turn, to gauge the distance between them like a chasm and say the first words.

 

“Why? Why would you send me that? With no explanation, no warning? You didn’t even  _ answer my damn calls, _ ” his voice strains, trying so hard to keep his cool. But this part, here, is where the anger lies. The hurt over the tactless, careless, painful way Yuuri had gone about all of it. Like he couldn’t see far enough past his own grief to even consider how Yurio would feel to receive that message. And it’s there that Yuuri’s anxieties make him selfish, and it’s hard not to hold it against him this time. 

 

“There was nothing else to say,” Yuuri says with his shaking voice and his red-rimmed eyes. Lying straight to his face like Yurio can’t  _ see _ the way he’s hurting over his own actions. It only makes him more frustrated.

 

“There was everything to say! You can’t just break up with me in a video message and then ignore me! You didn’t even give me a  _ reason _ Yuuri!” His voice is rising, and he knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t fucking help it. He’s desperate. He wants to shake Yuuri until he realizes how  _ infuriatingly stupid  _ he’s being. Wants to kiss him, beg him not to do this. Whatever it takes, Yurio doesn’t care. 

 

“BECAUSE I LOVE YOU,” Yuuri shouts, cheeks red and eyes shut like he can’t bear to see Yurio’s reaction. 

 

And what a reaction it is, because he just chokes a little and stares, uncomprehending. Because that is the most backwards thing he has ever heard, even as it makes his heart race and leap to finally hear the words straight. 

 

“If you love me then why would you break up with me?!” Is what ends up coming out instead, despair dripping off every syllable. And Yuuri finally crumbles, voice cracking with the tears that crest over his splotchy cheeks. But his hands are balled into fists at his sides, and his body language is screaming that he doesn’t want Yurio near, so he stays where he is. 

 

“Because people like you don’t love people like me!”

 

Gobsmacked, Yurio just...stares. Yuuri seems to take his silence as some sort of sign, because he plows onward, like he can’t stop himself now that the dam is broken. 

 

“Being shy and anxious and uncomfortable isn’t cute, it’s only endearing for a little while! And then people get tired of it and they ask you to change and I just  _ can’t!  _ And  I can't keep falling for people I can't have, I can’t let myself think that I’m worthy of dating someone like you, who everyone  _ already loves _ anyway! I'm not allowed to love you, I'm not allowed to keep you! You're just going to leave like everyone else!” Yelling turns into screaming until Yuuri is shaking with each word, and his fists are white where he clenches them. 

 

Whatever anger he feels, the desire to yell back how fucking  _ stupid  _ all of that is simply vanishes. So instead he steps forward and cradles Yuuri’s cheeks in his hands, lifts his face up and kisses him. 

 

It’s salty with tears, and Yuuri struggles weakly for all of a second before he’s leaning into Yurio and dragging at his shoulders. Just as proprietary and possessive as Yurio. Until they break away, and he tilts their foreheads together and waits until those lovely cinnamon eyes finally dare to lift and stare back at him. And with his thumbs brushing warm tears away from Yuuri’s cheeks, he lets his own trembling, emotional smile take over his face. 

 

“Stupid katsudon,” he whispers, with immeasurable fondness. 

 

“I've loved you since I first saw you skate in Sochi. I loved you before I even knew what love really was. I've been chasing you across continents for half of my life, Yuuri. I flew to Japan when I was barely out of my Juniors because I saw you first, and I couldn’t stay away. Even if I leave, no matter where I am I'll always come back to you," he whispers intimately, focusing intently on Yuuri’s eyes and expression. Watches his beautiful face crumble into something broken and hopeful and disbelieving all at once. When Yurio realizes his own relieved tears are coming back, blurring his vision a little, his laugh comes out wet and a little hysterical.  _ The things you do to me, Yuuri. The things you make me say.  _

 

“I flew to America within two hours of you trying to break up with me Katsuki, if that isn’t proof of how impossible I’m going to be to get rid of I don’t know how else to get it through your thick skull,” is all he manages to say before Yuuri is kissing him over and over again. Their laughter morphs into tears and back into laughter in the space between their lips whenever they spare a chance for breath. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri is repeating like a mantra, in between kisses. 

 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, you’re not Victor, I just...I’m not good enough, I don’t want to drag you down, I don’t want to ruin your career when you’re in your prime,” Yuuri finally confesses when they pull away, and Yurio is both incensed and pitifully endeared by Yuuri’s worst insecurities coming to light.

 

Yurio has to pull away, even if each kiss is like a bandaid to the hurt he'd been feeling the entire flight over. He can’t take the easy way and simply accept that Yuuri is apologetic, or turn a blind eye to the hurdle that still looms above them. Mocking the size of the one they’d just tentatively cleared. So he finally does take Yuuri by the shoulders, shaking him a little until the flow of words cease and he stands there staring broken-heartedly at Yurio. 

 

“How are you dragging me down?” It’s pretty much a demand, and Yuuri shrinks back a little. Not fearful, but uncomfortable. Clamming up nervously beneath Yurio’s truculent behavior. Yurio hopes it’s because Yuuri knows somewhere inside that Yurio is right, that his question really is rhetorical. 

 

“You used to focus so much on skating, you  _ love _ it Yuri,” is all Yuuri manages to whisper, and it’s a weak answer at best. Yurio doesn’t hesitate before bulldozing right through it, still fighting to keep Yuuri’s flickering gaze.  _ Look at me. Stop hiding. Stop lying to yourself.  _

 

“Yeah I love skating, but I love you too damn it! You made me a  _ better _ skater, how do you argue that huh? My step sequences, my spins, my performance emotions? That was you Yuuri, Yakov tried for  _ years _ to get my head out of my ass and he couldn’t!  _ You _ are the reason why I’ve come this far, even my debut year I only won gold in Barcelona because I wanted you to stay with me!” Yurio’s words are a lot louder in comparison, but he’s careful to watch the vehemence of his words.  _ Be gentle,  _ Phichit’s voice reminds in his head. 

 

“B-But your fans -” 

 

“I don’t care! Yuuri, look at me.  _ Look at me. _ ” It takes a few seconds for Yuuri to look up again, but he has all the time in the world. When their eyes meet he squeezes Yuuri’s shoulders.

 

“I don’t care if they have crushes on me, or if they don’t want me with you. I’m a  _ skater _ not a  _ celebrity.  _ And they’re not fans of mine if they can’t handle the fact that I’m with you.” Yurio’s fans had grown a lot - alongside him, really - but fans would always be fans in some way. Good and bad. Yurio wasn’t blind to the snarky, disappointed, even hateful comments some of his Instagram posts with Yuuri would receive. But he didn’t give a flying fuck what any of them thought, because they were strangers to him. None of them meant even a fraction of what Yuuri meant to him. Maybe that was cruel of him, but if they couldn’t be happy with the presence of his own happiness, then they weren’t real fans at all. 

 

Still Yuuri seemed reluctant, trying to remove himself from under Yurio’s hands. It didn’t work, both because he was struggling so weakly and because Yurio wasn’t intending to let him go anytime soon; not when Yurio had been threatened with the terrifying notion of losing him. 

 

“I don’t want you to leave when you find someone better.”

 

_ Be gentle, Yuri. This is what he thinks is true.  _

 

Still he can’t help but angrily thrust a hand through his hair, using the one still on Yuuri’s shoulder to reel him closer. Despite all his protestations the man sways forward like he’s grateful for Yurio taking control of the situation.  _ Even when you try and break up with me you still trust me. Stupid katsudon, why are you so stubborn? _

 

Yuuri fits perfectly against his shoulder, and Yurio just...stands there. Presses his cheek to Yuuri’s hair, tucks his arm around the man’s shoulder. There are tears, somewhere in the quiet expanse. Yuuri letting go of his emotions, arms limp at his side as his tears slowly darken the fabric of Yurio’s shirt. 

 

When he’s sure Yuuri has cried himself out, Yurio shifts and presses a kiss to Yuuri’s temple. 

 

“I’m not saying you’re perfect. And I’m pissed that you tried to pull something this stupid. But I’m not looking for perfect, okay? I’m not looking for ‘better’. I want to be with  _ you.  _ I just…” it’s frustrating because it’s like he has all these words inside his head, but his tongue stubbornly knots itself the second he tries to speak them. Still incapable of saying the things Yuuri needs to hear most, and he hates himself for that. No matter how much improvement he’d made, he still couldn’t say what he wanted to in order to make Yuuri understand. 

 

So he closes his eyes, glad to be spared from the natural intensity of Yuuri’s gaze as he forces the words painfully past his clenched teeth. 

 

“Nobody’s  _ perfect _ . People said Phichit was perfect for you, they said Beka was perfect for me. But here we are, because they were wrong. Love isn’t...it’s  _ fucked up  _ Yuuri, it’s not perfect. We fight and you make me so frustrated sometimes but that doesn’t matter because I fucking love you. Do you get it? I didn’t choose who I thought would be perfect for me forever, and make a single decision to last the rest of my life. I picked you, I pick you  _ every day.  _ It’s not a one time thing, because every morning I wake up and I pick you over everyone else again and again. You make me better, don’t you get that?” Desperation crawls into his voice, and he hugs Yuuri tighter when the man tries to pull away, clearly wanting to see his face. 

 

“I don’t care if I would be happy with anyone else, life isn’t sunshine and fucking rainbows, and I wouldn’t want it to be. It’d be gross. I pick you because  _ you  _ are the one I want when things go to shit, okay? You changed my damn life, Katsuki Yuuri. Don’t you see it?” 

 

Somehow the words lend him the courage to move Yuuri away until they finally meet eyes, and he’s frustrated with the scowl on his lips and the contrasting flush against his cheeks. Yuuri searches his face desperately like he’s searching for something only he can see, and Yurio just prays he finds it. 

 

“I wouldn’t be where I am if you hadn’t stumbled over to me drunk out of your mind and challenged me to a dance. I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t fucked my entire world over with  _ one  _ routine. I’m not leaving. You’re all that I want, no matter how infuriating you are.”

 

And Yuuri finally smiles.

 

\------

 

Yurio stays.

 

It’s not a difficult decision, not when Yuuri quietly asks him when he’s leaving again. It’s mid summer, the season was still a few months off, and Yuuri meant more to him than pleasing Yakov. So he stays. 

 

It’s like Hasetsu all over again. They spend the rest of the day in bed, quietly talking. It’s not the end of their conversation in the slightest. Yurio isn’t good at communication, but he tries damn it. He tries because he can’t imagine a life without Yuuri anymore, and he can see now why Victor had been so hopelessly enchanted upon first meeting the man. Why everyone is, really. 

 

Yurio had always known of the darkness that lingered in the corners of Yuuri’s mind, like shadows that would always exist in the wake of Yuuri’s natural brightness. But he had signed on for all of it, and so he listens as Yuuri stumbles and frets through unsteady words that depict his worries. And Yurio shoots them down each time, laying them to tattered rest until the knots in Yuuri’s shoulders ease. 

 

Phichit eventually returns with dinner, but he doesn’t disturb them. Leaving them to their little sanctuary of sheets and skin. Like the distance between countries and competitions didn’t exist anymore beyond the boundaries of their four walls. 

 

They forget about the rest of the world for a little while. 

 

When night comes they part only long enough to brush their teeth, elbowing each other as they scuffle over mirror space, smearing toothpaste across each other’s cheeks and complaining over the cold tiles beneath their bare feet. Then they go together back to the bed, where Yurio pulls Yuuri onto his chest and covers them both with the blankets. They curl around one another, legs intertwined and arms sure to be numb by morning with how they cling to one another, heedless of bodyweight or nerves. They fall asleep like that, holding on tight like time might slow down if only they can show it why it needs to. For more hours of this, erasing weeks of screens and distance with each inch of skin that gets to touch and feel once more. 

 

Morning is a lot harder, in the wake of that. 

 

Yurio can’t stay forever. Though he could care less what Yakov thinks of his little disappearing act, he can’t live in Detroit forever. They both have to go back to training eventually, and they both know it. It’s obvious in the strain of their smiles, the way their eyes snap away from the neon numbers on the stove, stubbornly flipping their phones over to avoid the reality of time slipping by. After such a shock to their relationship they both feel unsteady. Leaving in the wake of it seems like an impossible level of difficulty. 

 

_ I don’t know how to fix this,  _ Yurio thinks to himself as he watches Yuuri make lunch.  _ I don’t want to go. I don’t want to leave him again.  _

 

That’s when it hits him, and he springs up from the table and hurries over to Yuuri, hands grasping his hips and spinning him away from the stove. Yuuri gives a shocked cry but twists easily in his hands, wooden spoon flicking sauce over the countertops. Yurio doesn’t care, just stares down into Yuuri’s face.

 

“Yuuri. Move in with me.”

 

“... _ HAAAAAH?!” _

 

\------

 

“Is that the last of it,  Зайчонок?”

 

“ Да, Yura!” Calls back through the apartment, followed by the sound of a door swinging shut. Yurio wipes the sweat from his forehead with his forearm and peeks his head back into the hallway to see Yuuri lying sprawled out over top of a big box, like a wilted starfish. Yurio laughs and strolls down the hallway, squatting in front of Yuuri and poking at his temple until Yuuri whines and shoves at his hand. 

 

“You can’t quit now, where’s all that famous stamina?” Yurio smirks, evading Yuuri’s defending hand to continue poking tired little whines out of his boyfriend. 

 

“Doesn’t apply to moving,” Yuuri huffs, finally lifting his head to avoid the assault, glaring and pouting (even if he’ll deny the latter). Yurio just smirks and pulls a lock of dark hair, until Yuuri’s eyes narrow and he lunges forward, knees knocking into the box as he tackles Yurio to the ground. He squawks as he goes down, packing peanuts spilling all over the floor.  _ At least it wasn’t breakable,  _ he thinks before Yuuri pins his shoulders down with a triumphant look on his face. Yurio grins and twists, both pushing and guiding Yuuri as he switches positions. Yuuri makes a startled noise but he’s laughing quietly in the back of his throat, and it’s a beautiful noise.

 

They take a moment to just sit there and stare at each other. 

 

Yurio braces his forearms on either side of Yuuri’s neck, and he knows he must look like the happiest man alive as he smiles fondly and brushes a foam peanut off Yuuri’s cheek from where it tries to cling stubbornly. Yuuri’s cheeks are warm, and he gets as drunk off it as mulled wine, the same shade of red that evokes the same pleased feeling buzzing in his skin. Yuuri’s eyes flutter beautifully when Yurio leans in to kiss him, and the apartment is quiet and new around them. When they part he doesn’t retreat, letting the tips of their noses brush as he smiles.

 

“Welcome home?”

 

Yuuri’s eyes are warm, and it’s a beautiful expression to see on him. Fitting. Yurio wants to keep that expression on him for the rest of his life if he can. 

 

“Yeah. Welcome home.”

 

…

 

“So...when do we start christening the place?”

 

Yurio squawks as Yuuri leverages his powerful legs beneath his chest and kicks him backwards into the pile of packing peanuts, face burning red. 

 

“You’re sleeping on the couch!”

 

“But it’s not even unloaded!”

 

Yeah. This was going to be perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap, folks! I seriously can't say how honored I am to have received such overwhelming love and support for this fic, it has been an amazing ride and I owe it all to you as fans and readers for it having reached completion. I can only hope that I delivered, and that you love this as much as I do. The sequel will have a lot more serious content, real life issues, and hard decisions, and I am more than ready for the change of pace. But I wanted to make this sweet and beautiful to the end! 
> 
> We hit a total of 31 pages on this chapter! My goal was 30, and I'm so glad I managed to exceed that. I couldn't have done it without my beta, Lulu, and all the affection from you guys. 
> 
> I am at a total loss of words for how to thank all of you for your support. I still stare at the kudo count, I reread the comments, I read every little bookmark blurb. This was my brainchild and I poured a lot of my heart into it, and to have it received so warmly means more to me than I can express. I hope you will continue to support the series as it develops, and that I'll see some familiar faces in the comments in the future!
> 
> If you ever have any requests for me to write, leave a comment, or follow/drop an ask in my writing tumblr axon-a! I love to write for other people, and I'll write just about anything. But remember I will always support all of you in writing your own stories, I believe in you! I will always excitedly read whatever you have to contribute to this fandom. 
> 
> Until next time, my beautiful friends!

**Author's Note:**

> Tell us what you think! We try to keep them all as in-character as possible, of course. Feedback is appreciated!
> 
> Also a cute side note -- all the chapters are designated by flowers and their meanings, and how those meanings connect to the chapters!


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